


I'll Bring You Hell

by damselindisguise



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Vladimir Lived, Blind Character, But Its Primarily, Disabled Character, Drama & Romance, F/F, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Legal Drama, M/M, Matimir, Matt Murdock and His Flawed Judgment, Matt Sees A World On Fire, Mattimir, Multi, Other, Slash, Slow Burn, Some characters are only mentioned - Freeform, Strained Friendships, This Will Have Mentions of Other Ships For Other Characters, Time Skips, Vlatt, What If Vladimir Had To Lay Low In Matt's Apartment, enemies falling in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 22,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3767143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damselindisguise/pseuds/damselindisguise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt found he didn't have a choice but to save Vladimir's life the only way he knew how; he took him home. Now he has a live-in Russian crime lord with too much time on his hands and nothing to do with him, all as Wilson Fisk's plans begin to bring the city slowly but surely to its knees- all while trying to solve the enigma of the angry Ranskahov living in his apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Black Mask

**Author's Note:**

> ((A/N: By popular demand, I am writing more Mattimir slash! Granted, it's not in the same verse as 'Ghost of Savior Past,' but it is most certainly a slash for them, if a little more slow burn than my first one-shot for this ship. This has spoilers for the show, and goes somewhat AU from Episode 5's opening forward. In any case, I hope all of you who ship this as I do- who I am very grateful to see because I thought I was alone- are happy with this fic as it progresses! As always, I do not own Daredevil or make money from this! Enjoy, and thank you for reading!))

The city is on fire. Four buildings are blazing like devils’ eyes in the dark of the Hell’s Kitchen night, and there’s smoke tainting the air. People flee the sites, moving like ants away from their anthills when comes the feared exterminator with his wretched chemicals made to kill; and like him, the Chinese have played their hand, sending in their chemical-blinded attack dogs with their bombs on their backs. 

Two corrupt SWAT men lie on the ground in the tunnels, and the Mask drags Vladimir with him, his arm slung around his shoulders haphazardly as the Russian grips a rifle. The door swings idly behind them in the draft, and the man in black tugs it shut, lets Vladimir cram the rifle’s width into the handle and secure it, for the time being. The rest of Fisk’s paid off men won’t be able to get through that so easily, and they hurry down the tunnel; hurry as much as a shot man and a beaten man, each of whom survived an explosion, can, that is. 

“Should have left me,” Vladimir slurs, “Could have bought you time, yes? You’re trying too hard, you know.” 

“Shut up,” the Mask says, voice low, and he drags Vladimir with him, tugging the Russian’s arm up onto his shoulders again as the other man starts to sag lower, his life still trickling out in warm but cooling streams down his stubble lined face, curling in long stripes to his jaw and painting his cheeks as it fingers his throat and drops to his chest. 

The Mask knows he needs to get Vladimir somewhere, but he only knows one place. He curses the world for screwing everything over like this over and over and says, “I’m going to take you to my apartment.” 

“You are more stupid than I thought,” laughs Vladimir, his voice impish and choked in the Mask’s ear. 

“More heroic than you thought, maybe,” the Mask shoots back, and Vladimir snorts.

“Like I said; more stupid that I thought.” 

The man in black enters the light outside, but they left the corrupt, searching police behind, and now they near the Mask’s apartment, with the burning bright neon billboard hanging large and in charge only a street or a few ahead. The Mask is sweating, his black suit dusty and clinging to him damply with both his own and Vladimir’s fluids.

He curses under his breath, slaps Vladimir’s cheek, and says, “Stay awake, Russian, I’m not taking you to my apartment so you can die on my sofa.” 

“Yes,” Vladimir says, “You are, unless you also moonlight as doctor.” 

“I don’t,” the Mask says, “But I do know a nurse, and that’s just as good.” 

“Does she know you?” Vladimir asks as the Mask deposits him and tugs away his garments, revealing the face of Matthew Murdock to the dim alleyway as he replaces his suit and tie. 

“Well enough,” Matt lies, and the Russian can’t hear his heartbeat like the lawyer can his, so he won’t know. 

“You are ordinary man,” Vladimir chuckles wetly, spitting red as they enter the door, Matt dragging the man by now, “How ironic, that you really are so simple.” 

Matt shrugs his load higher on his shoulders and says, “Well, I’m less ordinary than you think.” 

They enter his apartment, jet-black besides the neon sign, and Vladimir questions, “Why do you not turn on the lights?” as Matt deposits him on the couch and moves to get the medical kit. 

“Don’t need it,” Matt answers. 

“Why not?” Vladimir says, “Too stupid to think you need it, or are you blind?” He’s being rhetorical. 

“Blind would be the answer,” Matt answers, “But there are other ways of seeing.” 

“Cliché,” the Russian snorts as Matt kneels beside him with the medical kit, “What is your name?” 

“The Mask, man in black, take your pick.” 

“Your real one, fool,” snipes Vladimir with irritation, his voice trying to hold verve even as he loses blood all over the towels Matt is shoving under his form, lethargic and unresponsive to touch, beginning to turn clammier than even before in the building, when he was cooling. 

“You can call me whatever you want,” Matt says, “Just lie still so I can fix you. We need each other, you and me.” 

“No problem lying still,” Vladimir says, “Got that covered easy, fool.” 

“Fool isn’t preferrabe, but it will do,” mutters the lawyer, also irritated, as he starts getting out the innards of the kit to work on Vladimir. “You may want to go to sleep for this.” 

“I can sleep when I’m dead,” answers the Russian. 

“That’s going to be sooner rather than later if you don’t let me work,” Matt warns, his anger starting to wax his expression. He’s trying to save this dumb felon; can’t the man tell? He’s ungrateful at the least, stupid at the most. 

"Fine," Vladimir says, "Let's see if you are as good at healing as you are at hurting, yes?" 

Matt hisses as he feels the wounds all over Vladimir, and says, "You're hurt even worse than I thought. I need to call-" He cuts himself off. 

"Claire?" asks Vladimir, "I know her name, fool, do not play games. Call Claire, if you think she can help."

Matt dials her on his burner phone and as soon as she answers with her usual curtness cuts her off with a quick greeting of, "Claire, this is urgent. Come to the address I"m about to tell you with whatever materials you need to save the life of a man who just was in an explosion and a shooting." 

"What?" she asks shrilly over the line, "That's ICU level wounding!" 

"Trust me," Matt says, "You don't want this guy in the ICU." 

"Matt," Claire says, drawing out her words dangerously, "Who is this patient?" He can hear her making excuses to leave even as she asks, keys rattling and sirens racing by as she gets into her car. 

"Ah," he says, "I'd prefer I not tell you his affiliations until he's stable." 

"He's a Russian, isn't he?!" she exclaims, outraged, and he bites his lip, sighing.

"This is bigger than you and I, Claire," he says, "This man has important information. He could be a valuable informant if he survives, our opinions be damned, and could bring down the whole crime ring if we got him onto the stand to deliver a statement. He has names for everyone he could present to the jury. Hell, Claire, we can't afford to be emotional here."

"I know," she sighs, and he can hear the sound of her motor in the background, "I'm on my way to your place, now." 

"So you did know my address when I said it," he says, a note of a smile in his tone, and she chuckles morosely at him. 

"See you in a minute, Matt," she says, "Have the door unlocked."

Matt rolls up his sleeves and turns back to Vladimir when he has the door unlocked for Claire.

"Buddy," he says, "Not even I would wish what she's about to do on you."

Claire comes in the door at a fast jog, tossing her bag down, and Matt shuts the door, kneeling beside her. "How can I help?"

"Get the saline solutions," she says, "And the blood bags. I need to cauterize the bullet wound, look for something you can burn, or a flare, or something." 

"Coming right up," he says, rushing to the kitchen after drawing out the bags she asked for by scenting them. 

"You smell like you are dog," Vladimir says, "How else would you know blood from water if you are blind?" 

"Hey," Claire says, "Word of advice? You're already in agony, and I can make it worse even while I make you better. So how about you be nice to Matt and I for tonight, yeah?" 

"Matt," he says, "And Claire. I might be able to make an agreement on my attitude." He yelps a little as she tugs hard on her stitching needle, the stitches tightening sharply in his side. "If you can make a healthy prescribing of pain pills," he wheezes out additionally, as she moves to his next wound.

"With the plethora of wounds here, you're gonna need it," she says, and settles in for the night as her gloves rub against a new round of stitches, and Matt clatters for something that burns in the kitchen.

~

After Vladimir is passed out and stabilized, Claire goes over to Matt, who removed his mask shortly prior, and leans on the counter, sighing. "I need a drink," she says, "You got anything?" 

"There's some cheap beer on the bottom," he says, shrugging, "I think Foggy brought it. The wine on top smells nice, but it wasn't expensive, either." 

"Thanks," she says, and pours herself a glass of the wine, sipping it, dry be damned. "So," she continues when she has drank half of it, "What's your plan with this Russian? Are you just going to throw him onto the streets again every time we have to save his life, or does he have a safe house that isn't blazing right now? Emphasis on the isn't, I hope you noticed." She gestures at the window, but the motion is lost on Matt, who stands still and silent for a moment before shrugging.

"I'll just keep him here," Matt says, and Claire gapes.

"Matt, this man tried to kill you, multiple times! If not him, then his cronies! A kid was kidnapped just so they could lure you in! Or did you forget that? He'll poison your morning corn flakes if you keep him here!" 

"No," Matt says, shaking his head, "I don't have any poison in here, and he won't be leaving. Not in his condition." 

"He might have some on him," Claire protests, leaning in as she brushes her hair behind her ear, conditioner and shampoo scent assaulting Matt, who leans a little so he can smell if Vladimir starts bleeding heavily again. 

"I would smell it," Matt dismisses, "Remember?"

"Fine," she says, "But I don't like it. Can I go home yet?" 

"With the Russians other than Vladimir over there out of the equation, and him laid up," Matt justifies, "Yes, I think that would be fine. You don't need to hide out in the same place as one of the men who had you kidnapped, anyways. Bad for both of your healths, I'd go out on a limb to say. Yours, mental, his... less so." 

She rolls her eyes and says, "I hope you know what you're doing, Matt. I really do. For both of our sakes."

He smiles mirthlessly as she pats his shoulder, rubbing her thumb on it before finishing her wine and rinsing her hands to go check on their patient.

After all, he's working on figuring out what he's doing. One step at a time.

Yeah, that should work.


	2. Bruises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Here's the second chapter of my Mattimir story! I hope you enjoy!))

The next morning, once Claire has left, and Matt is alone, he goes in the small kitchen and starts rummaging in his freezer. He assumes he ought to thaw some breakfast food so that Vladimir will have something to eat when he wakes up. After all, he's going to need all the nutrients he can get to recover from his wounds. 

Of course, as soon as he's pulling out the hash browns, he hears Vladimir's heartbeat pick up and his breathing change, so Matt heads into the living area, standing over the couch.

"I'm not going anywhere," Vladimir says, "So why are you standing over me?" 

"To make sure you're okay," Matt says, breathing in subtly to be sure the Russian hasn't broken any stitches. Of course, he smells copper right away, because Vladimir can't help but be a problem, so he says, "You broke open the stitches on your abdomen." 

"No shit," Vladimir says impishly, and Matt goes to get the first aid materials again, returning just in time to keep the crime lord from trying to get to his feet. 

"Stay down," Matt says, putting a hand on the Russian's chest, and Vladimir snorts as he lies back again. 

"As if I could go anywhere," he says, removed, and Matt tugs up the Russian's shirt, pinning it into the other's hand as he loops the stitches into the needle and presses it through the skin, twisting here and there to continue closing the wound. His squirming patient tries to sit once again and Matt quickly angles himself to block that attempt.

"Stay down," he snaps, and finishes the stitches, letting up on the weight he was using to keep Vladimir still.

"You are trying," Vladimir begins, "Very hard to keep me alive. Too much. Why not just me die?" 

"I need your information," Matt says, as he ties off the stitches and then breaks the strand and stands back up, "And I don't usually just let people die. If I can help it, no one dies on my watch."

"Many people die on your watch," Vladimir snorts, and Matt can hear him chortle wetly in his lungs, "My brother died on your watch; where was Devil of Hell's Kitchen then, to make sure Anatoly lived?" 

"I can't help what Fisk does if I can't even find him," Matt says gravely, trying not to dwell on Vladimir's proclamation of Matt's failure to protect people when he's in the streets playing vigilante. 

"I will help you," Vladimir says, "But after that, I don't want you to keep me alive anymore. I should have died in warehouse last night." He sneers, bucking one shoulder, in an awkward and painful shrug. "I do not have problem with death. It does not scare me, anymore." 

Matt is quiet for a long time after that. "I'm sorry to hear that," he finally says, "Because I don't fear anything, and I'm not sure I like how it feels."

Then he leaves the Russian alone, going in his kitchen and beginning to cook for them both. If Vladimir is going to live, he's going to have to supply better food than morning McDonalds takeout.  
~

Vladimir is unconscious again when Matt finishes cooking, so he shovels the food onto two plates and sets one on the table in front of the crime lord before seating himself across the table and listening to the Russian's slumbering. He times it for five minutes and then says, "Wake up. Breakfast."

The Russian blinks, and looks slowly at Matt and then at the breakfast. "What is that?" he asks.

"Breakfast," Matt repeats, "Eat it. You need nutrition if your body is going to heal any time soon."

"Fine," Vladimir says, struggling in place, and he winces. Matt sniffs, but there is no copper scent. "A little help would be nice," the Russian bites, and Matt rises from his seat, moving over to tuck his arm under the crime lord. As he plants his hand on Vladimir's stomach, he detects a wince on the other man's face whilst pulling him up and pauses, quizzically moving his body to face him.

"What?" 

"Nothing," Vladimir says, and at Matt's look of behest, he relents and grits out humbly and unhappily, "Hurts."

Matt sighs and says, "Lean back," as he eases Vladimir to sit against the back of the couch and tugs up the hem of the Russian's shirt. His whole chest and gut is covered in ugly bruises so far as Matt can feel, and he winces, too, then. "I'll get you some ibuprofen," he says, "But I don't have anything stronger in the apartment." 

"Pussy," laughs the Russian, even as Matt goes to get him some medication. 

He delivers it with a glass of water and says, "Drink up, Vladimir. Then eat." At least the crime lord does as he's told, swallowing them and then starting in, hungrily shoveling the food into his mouth across from Matt, who finishes his own meal. 

When they are both done, Vladimir announces, "I need to piss." Matt listens for all of half a second to the other man's groans of misery as he tries to stand and sighs. 

"For all your work you're doing trying to stand up, you don't even know where the bathroom is," the lawyer points out cooly to the crime lord, who pauses a spell, growling with irritation.

"Don't need your help," the Russian spits, and Matt can hear him stumble onto his feet, and then promptly moan as the floorboards creak underneath his swaying form.

"Yes, you do," Matt says, and hooks his arm under Vladimir's, lugging the criminal along with him as he heads towards his bathroom.  
~

Once Vladimir has done his business and raided Matt's already scarce fridge and cabinets for snacks, as well as putting the ibuprofen in a strict regiment on the table, Matt makes his exit, breathing out hard between his lips with exasperation as soon as he's out the door to his apartment, cane clutched in his white-knuckled hand as he takes a moment for himself for the first time since early last night. 

When he's collected again, he heads to the office, humming a comforting note in his throat whilst he moves along, his stick's clicking lulling him into an comfortable state of unthinking, whether or not he completely needs it. He could technically use his super senses on the street, but he doesn't want to focus them that much, so he just sort of zones out and lets himself move with the clicking carefully as he heads towards the office. 

The day is easy enough, drifting by, and then he goes home, listens to Vladimir's sleeping breaths on the couch, and gets out the trunk from the closet. He takes a second to feel along the letter's of his father's final boxing garb- 'Battlin' Jack Murdock'- and then he dons his black outfit, tugging the mask around his face and heading out the door again.

He's going to get Leeland Owsley, this time. 

As it turns out, that is his objective for a few nights, until Vladimir points him in the right direction one morning when he gets back, huffing and puffing in anger, covered in sweat and dust and dirt, and the Russian laughs at him until one of his broken ribs actually removes itself from place and Matt has to put it back. His patient is really more trouble than he's worth, until the clue.

Which is how, a few nights later, Matt ends up eavesdropping on Owsley from the shadows, waiting for Nobu and the others to leave before he makes his move.

The clicking of the stick interrupts him when he does, and the old man makes his move, using his Taser on Matt, who finds himself staring up, groaning and squinting past the blurs up at a man he knows too well- and wishes he'd never seen again, on the surface, though his feelings are more conflicted down lower.

His first thought- how will he explain Stick to Vladimir? 

But more importantly- how is he going to explain Vladimir to Stick?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: I'm following the show's plot, but I'm trying to keep it interesting! Hope you like it!))


	3. Scars

Matt opens the door to his apartment and he prays Vladimir will at least be asleep- even better, he completely broke the rules and crawled in to sleep on Matt's bed, which, in a roundabout way, would be really helpful, at least in keeping Stick off of his back.

No such luck- in fact, the Russian is still awake. "Who's that?" Vladimir asks, and Matt winces. 

"Who's this?" Stick asks, his voice judgmental. 

"This is Vladimir," Matt says, "I saved his life, and he's still recovering. Also, he needs protection."

"Protection?" Stick asks, his voice irritated, "Is that what you've grown up to be? A blind, glorified body guard?"

"I don't need bodyguard," Vladimir says, sneering, and Matt hisses between his teeth. These two will butt heads until one of a few things happens, though, the most likely answer will be that Stick will just kill Vladimir out of spite. 

"That's what he said," Stick says, gesturing sharply to Matt, who is trying to decide how concerned he is with his Russian patients life at Stick's hands while they bicker back and forth pointlessly.

"Stop having your pissing contest," he says, suddenly, and they both look over at him, "Stick, you're an old man, you should know better. And Vladimir, you're basically in intensive care minus the hospital room, you're in no place to be challenging a master of martial arts." 

"Master of martial arts," snorts Vladimir, "Give me break, you're probably better fighter than him." 

"He trained me," Matt says, "I've never beaten him."

"Last time we fought," Stick cuts in, "You were barely even over your father's death. I expect you'll be better by now." 

"Dead father," Vladimir says, "No wonder you have death wish, mask." 

"My name is Matt," the lawyer snaps, finally tiring of hearing Vladimir's stupid nicknames for him juxtaposing with mask every two minutes. 

"Matt," Vladimir says, and Stick grunts with irritation.

"Are you two done being sappy?" he asks, gritty, and then he shoves Matt aside, "You got any beer?" 

"Yeah," Matt says, "It's in the fridge, bottom shelf."

"Probably that German pisswater," Stick states, and Matt resists the urge to bite that his old mentor doesn't like anything, and that's why he feels the need to criticize everything from familial bonding to German beer.

"Russian vodka is better," Vladimir says dejectedly from his place on the couch, and Matt just knows deep in his gut that he's getting the evil eye from his resident Russian mob boss. He shoots a glance that way, even though the other knows he's blind, hoping he'll get the message to shut up and not irritate Stick anymore. 

Of course, Stick never shuts up, so he gives Matt a long lecture about being 'too soft' for the next ten-something minutes, which ends with Vladimir randomly announcing from the couch, "I need to piss again." 

They both stand still a long moment and then Stick says, "Really? You're keeping a mobster in your home, and you're helping him go to the bathroom? Real great warrior you became, Matt."

"Shut up, Stick," the lawyer bites back, and goes to help his patient.

His no-killing rule throbs in his mind, reminding him of how different Stick is from him; Vladimir would be dead, and the men at the docks would soon be. With Matt here, he can stop that. 

He grits his teeth, lugging Vladimir with him, and resolves to make sure he keeps his rule solid.  
~

The apartment door bangs shut behind Matt as he stalks down the stairs, heading towards Stick. "He's angry," Vladimir reports, his voice bored from his place on the couch, which seems dangerous as the Mask's body vibrates with anger. 

"So am I," Matt says, and stands in front of Stick. 

Stick is quiet for a moment and then he resolutely, stonily states, "I was trying to disable the weapon."

"It was a child," Matt snarls, "Not a weapon. And you tried to kill it."

"It wasn't a child," Stick says, "It's much more than that."

"It had a heartbeat," Matt says, his lungs throbbing with anger as he clutches his fists.

"You're as blind as you ever were," Stick dismisses, turning his back on Matt.

"You shouldn't turn your back on him," Vladimir says, a little amused as he warns the old man.

"I needed a warrior," Stick says, his voice tense and angry, "You wanted a father."

Matt takes a moment, the air knocked out of him by Stick's cruel words, and then he lets it out in a quick hiss and lashes out, his billy club in his hand.

Stick grabs him by the arm and twists, but Matt flips himself loose, unholstering the other club as he spins and attacks. Their hits blaze between them, and Matt feels his fist land, crossing Stick's face, and a savage pleasure beats through him at the feeling. He thinks of his father's boxing gear in the top of the chest, hidden in the closet, and strikes again, dodging and deflecting Stick's blows to land another hit, another.

The table is close by, and Matt moves out of Stick's range. "Vladimir, move," he says, fast as he can, and ducks Stick's next hit, only for the old man to pick him up and drop both of them through the table. They both groan for a moment and then Matt goes for his clubs, only to get kicked in the stomach. 

"You're still not willing to let go and do what you need to," Stick says, sounding tired, almost world weary. Matt feels himself kicked again, and then there's a loud crashing sound and Stick stops. 

"Vladimir, get away," Matt says, sensing that the Russian just made a move against Stick, and he rockets up, striking his mentor hard to divert his attention from the wounded Russian.

Stick yells in little more than irritation and spins to come back at Matt, who finds himself on his back a moment later, the bottom step shattered beneath him. He kicks out, tripping Stick, and then gets to his feet roughly and starts hitting Stick in the face.

'Watch out for those Murdock boys,' a voice echoes in his mind, 'They've got the Devil in them.'

He finally stops, breathing heavily, and steps back from Stick. "Get out," he says, rage beating like a drum as he holds it back.

"Maybe there's hope for you yet," the old man groans as he collects his gear and then gets out, his body grinding with weariness of age and battle as he goes.

"Well," Vladimir says, "That was fun."

"You're bleeding again," Matt says, smelling the copper from Vladimir's direction, and moves towards him. 

"The couch is broken," Vladimir says, muffled, and the Mask grunts with understanding, "It's also covered in wood and glass."

"You can rest on my bed until I get it fixed, or get a new one," Matt says, and Vladimir loops an arm over the Mask's shoulders, letting him lead. Once they get to the bed, Matt deposits his patient and then gets the stitches and the rest of the kit, cleaning up his wounds and then restitching them with the sterilized equipment. 

"I found this," Vladimir says, and Matt holds out his hand instinctively, on his haunches by the bed now that the stitches are done. The Russian's hand finds his and deposits something familiar in his palm.

Matt's breath catches, and he breathes in and out with effort as he runs his finger along the paper bracelet. 

"What is it?" Vladimir says, a moment later.

"Something from my past," Matt answers after a lapse, and then leaves without clarifying, letting Vladimir rest while he cleans up the wrecked apartment.

But Vladimir- Vladimir just wonders as he recuperates; what was that paper bracelet, and why did Matt look so empty when the Russian handed it over?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Like I said, it's AU but not extremely AU. Also, i hope you enjoyed the development between Matt and Vladimir this chapter. If you couldn't tell, I don't like Stick a lot, but I tried to be somewhat impartial of my own opinion in my writing of him and just be show accurate instead. In any case, I hope you enjoyed this!))


	4. Murdock

"You're a lawyer?" Vladimir asks from the couch, "That will be useful when I get arrested." 

"If you get arrested," Matt mutters, distracted, "I won't be there to bail you out." His resident Russian laughs loudly, and then it turns into pained sounds, and Matt decides that the in-between stage of pain and laughter makes him think of hyenas- hyenas, well fed, cackling in the African fields. 

He takes a moment to check the air for the scent of coppery blood, but there isn't any, telling him that Vladimir's wounds are still shut at the moment, and he moves on to what he was doing as the crime lord begins singing something to himself in Russian. His voice isn't perfect at all, it wavers in his throat, but Matt is comforted a little, despite failing to know the words to the song. 

"Очи чёрные, очи страстные, Очи жгучие и прекрасные! Как люблю я вас, как боюсь я вас! Знать, увидел вас я в недобрый час! Ох, недаром вы глубины темней! Вижу траур в вас по душе моей, Вижу пламя в вас я победное: Сожжено на нём сердце бедное. Но не грустен я, не печален я, Утешительна мне судьба моя: Всё, что лучшего в жизни Бог дал нам, В жертву отдал я огневым глазам!"

Matt glances over at Vladimir, who finishes his song to himself under his breath and says, "You know I heard all of that, right?"

"No, you didn't," Vladimir sneers, disbelieving, and Matt says, "Super-special hearing, remember? It helps make up for the whole blind issue."

The Russian is quiet for a long moment before he says, "You don't know what it means, though."

"No," Matt agrees, shaking his head, "You're right, I don't." Vladimir turns over and Matt can hear him leaning up, groaning in pain, to look at what the lawyer is doing. 

"What are you doing?" he asks, "It looks official."

"Lawyer things," Matt says, absently, "Trying to bring Fisk down legally..." He looks over at Vladimir. "You're an anonymous source, so don't think you can run to Fisk and tell him what I'm doing and give him my friends' names, too." 

"I wouldn't," Vladimir responds, indignant, "He killed my brother. Do you not understand that? Anatoly is dead; Fisk took off his head with car door. I don't want to help Fisk!" He slams his hand into his palm as a fist, his anger seeping into his movements. "I want to see him burn," the Russian snarls, the word 'burn' becoming a torn up, hellish sound in his throat as Matt finally pays attention to his patient.

"And he will," Matt says, "But we can't all just go running after him dressed in black leotards like me, and I can't do it alone. So I have to start this with the law at Murdock and Nelson, and then I can finish it as the Mask." 

"Good," Vladimir says, "I want his whole empire to fall to ground and become like dirt. But one question."

"What?"

"Who are Nelson and Murdock?" 

Matt curses inside, having not meant to tell Vladimir his and Foggy's names. "Uh, my partner and I," he says, trying to be vague. 

"Matt Nelson? No... Murdock," Vladimir says, "Sounds right."

"Murdock," Matt confirms, "That's me, my partner is Nelson."

"What is he called?"

"Foggy," Matt says, and Vladimir sits up again, and he can feel his grinning stare.

"Foggy?" he questions.

"Yes," Matt confirms, "Trust me, it's not the weirdest nickname."

"Okay," Vladimir says, and reclines again, leaving Matt to do his business as he grunts, letting down on the pressure he was putting on his wounds.

Matt checks the air for copper. Nothing comes through.  
~

When Fisk comes out to the public before they can expose him, Matt sends the laptop flying. Vladimir jumps as it shatters against the wall, and he raises a hand as if to console Matt, pausing as they both stand still, Matt still and his body tight, throbbing with his anger as he glowers at nothing, seething with his lips pulled back like an animal. "I think," Vladimir says, "That you should calm down. It is my job to be angry criminal, not yours." He sets his hand carefully on Matt's shoulder as if he thinks that the other man will break it if he is too sudden, and Matt takes a deep breath, trying to find his control as he grips the table tightly. 

"He's a step ahead of me every time I try to bring him down," Matt says, gesturing sharply, "I need to find something to use against him. Something... good, something big." 

Vladimir shrugs. "Then hurt supports. It's not just him, he's running crime ring. A, ah, syndicate, I think you may call it sometimes in America."

"Like who?" Matt asks, applying his full attention to the Russian.

"There's Madame Gao," the former crime lord says, "She manufactures drugs for group with blinded cronies. She's most powerful- even Fisk respects her. After them is Nobu- he's a Japanese man, part of the local Yakuza, and some other group. The Foot? The Hair? Something. I only eavesdropped on him once, so I don't know. You know Leeland, ah, Owsley, and there were me and Anatoly, until Fisk had Gao bomb us with her runners. Fisk, of course... and his right hand man. Wesley, I believe."

"Wesley, Gao, Nobu, and Fisk," Matt considers, and then scrawls the names on a yellow legal pad, "Thank you, Vladimir. That's.... that's good work."

"It is why I am alive," he says, and drags his feet as he drags himself to the couch slowly, and then collapses, breathing heavily with exhaustion as Matt stares at the names. 

In the closet, the trunk calls his name, but he resists... for now.  
~

Matt calls the apartment before he goes for drinks in Elena Cardenas' honor after she is stabbed for her purse outside of her apartment.

"Not a random killing," Vladimir tells him, as they already both know, "Fisk ordered it, you know that."

"Yeah," Matt says, his voice stony and plain, "I know."

When he comes in, the alcohol surprisingly barely even clinging to him, he paces sharply, and Vladimir watches through drowsy eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"What needs to be done," Matt finally says, voice as sharp as a blade, and then he tears open the closet and kneels before the trunk, pulling it out and opening it to reveal his father's boxing gear. 

"You're a boxer?" Vladimir asks, "You must be busy."

"It was my father's," Matt says bitterly, and then he moves the top piece aside after stroking the letters momentarily, revealing the black outfit of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

"You're going to avenge the old lady, Cardenas," Vladimir realizes aloud, and Matt does not answer.

Instead, the lawyer takes a deep breath, crosses himself, and begins to don the suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: I think this one is a little shorter, but Vladimir was in a good mood for once from what I could tell, and next chapter he meets Foggy, so it should be an interesting coming of events to be. By the way, I hope it's a treat to get extra chapters today because I am not sure what happened with my sudden muse for this today, but, here it is! I hope you're enjoying the story!))


	5. Nelson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Nelson v. Murdock is going to be split into at least two chapters, honestly, so this is only the first of a couple of chapters dedicated to Matt's injuries and Foggy's realization of his vigilante best friend.))

Vladimir sits up sharply when Matt collapses, having been asleep until that point, at which he registers the sound of another man's voice echoing through the door, trying to find out what's wrong with Matt. 

A moment later, the voice moves, and he can hear it coming down the stairs, so he reaches for his gun, falling off the couch to grab it and then he checks the clip. Empty. 

Dammit, Matt. Vladimir looks around for the bullets in vain, but there's nothing for him to take, so he turns it in is hand so that he can club someone if need be. 

"Matt? I heard a crash. And not the good kind, the 'I've fallen and I can't get up' kind."

So whoever it is knows Matt and wants to make sure he's okay which tells the Russian that he probably shouldn't be worried, but he keeps the pistol in his hand anyways, prepared in case it's some kind of faker acting like they know Matt but really don't, so that they can get past the injured crime lord and finish both he and Matt now that the Devil of Hell's Kitchen is injured, just like his own patient. 

Vladimir gets to his feet slowly, but the intruder has already reached Matt's collapsed form, and is kneeling over him, confused, his face screwed up as a mop of darkly toned blond hair falls around his head, and he reaches out for Matt's mask. It occurs to him a moment too late that he should stop this man.

The intruder looks shocked and crestfallen and betrayed all at once as he simply whispers out one question, more of a rhetorical statement, really- "Matt?" 

"Get away from him," Vladimir says, and raises the unloaded gun threateningly, "How do you know him?" 

"I'm his- I thought I was his best friend," the other man says, stepping back but still staring at Matt as if disoriented.

"What is your name?" Vladimir asks, and when the other man fails to respond, he shouts, "What is your goddamn name?!" 

"Foggy Nelson," the intruder answers, and Vladimir lets himself relax a little, lowering the gun to his side.

"The law partner, yes?" he asks, and steps around the couch, his wounds throbbing as he stares down at the unconscious Matt, lying prone on the floor as he and Foggy both look at the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

"No, I'm just some guy who happens to know Matt," Foggy says abruptly, and Vladimir snorts.

"You're a faker," the Russian shrugs, and kneels beside Matt, placing a hand behind the vigilante's head, "He saved my life... That's only reason I am helping you, Matthew Murdock." He turns to look over his shoulder. "Help me move him, Misty."

"It's Foggy," Matt's law partner mutters, but kneels to help him, moving to tuck his hands under Matt's other side. They start to tug once, but Vladimir's side pulls and his stitches automatically go tight in his side, and Matt flinches, his fist lashing out so that Foggy has to leap back, shocked, even as Vladimir drops his side of Matt in the pain that spikes through his side.

"Shit," he curses, falling back, and breathes heavily, hand plastered to his side, "These damn things." He raises his eyes to the other man and considers, breathing heavily, "Get his phone and call nurse friend." 

Vladimir goes over to the sofa, collapsing and gritting his teeth as he watches Foggy desperately dial Claire on his best friend's burner phone. "Matt needs help," he says, without preamble, "This is Foggy Nelson, I'm his best friend, we're at his apartment." There's a short pause and he says, "Yeah, okay, we'll be waiting."

"Is she on way?" Vladimir asks, rubbing his sides as he watches the other man collapse, hands on his face with exasperation.

"Yeah," Foggy says, but then he suddenly pauses and looks past his hands at the Russian. "Wait, you're a Russian. Are you one of those crazy gang types? Is Matt not just the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, but he's also harboring a fugitive?"

Vladimir shrugs noncomitally, taking an interest in the giant neon billboard outside the window of the apartment, and Foggy lets out a horrified breath before carding his fingers through his own hair, getting it out of his face as he puffs his cheeks and blows out. "Okay," he says, "So are you going to kill me soon? Wait, are you telling Matt what to do? Are you mind-controlling him or something?"

"No," Vladimir says, "My partners tried to kill me... they did kill my brother, Anatoly... but Matt saved my life, stupid American. He's a hero, and I am... not so much. But I can't control him anymore than I can you. Do you feel like I am controlling you?"

"I feel like you're manipulating," Foggy answers plainly, his eyes stony, "Like you're turning the situation to your own advantage." 

"Maybe so," Vladimir says, smirking a little through the pain, turning it into a smug grimace, "Maybe so." He nods a bit.

Foggy starts as the door opens, and he says, "You're Claire?" 

"Yes," she says, "Where's Matt- oh." The nurse kneels quickly and starts pulling his gear off of him, brandishing her kit. "Open this," she says, and looks back at Vladimir.

"Nice to see you again," he bites, and she rolls her eyes at him.

"I hope you don't think I'm happy to see you," she retorts.

"No," he says, and then looks at Foggy, who just looks lost as he holds the open medical kit. Claire takes it from him, setting it out beside Matt as she begins to unravel the dark stitches and prepares to put them into the eye of the needle once they're sterilized. 

"Holy shit," Foggy says, blinking, eyes shining with wetness, at the sight of Matt's wounds.

"Weak stomach?" Vladimir asks, grinning widely.

"Doesn't this affect you at all?" Foggy questions, raising his hand to cover his own mouth with a fist. 

"No," Vladimir says, shrugging his shoulders, "I know he will live, and I have seen much worse. My brother got his head beaten off with a car door, after all." The last part is bitter on its way out, as he cranes around in search of some sort of alcohol.

"TMI, dude," Foggy winces, and Vladimir gets hold of a bottle of vodka he forced Matt to go buy by whining and pleading and begging, taking a long drink of it before offering it to Foggy, who also has a drink before returning it. He goes for another, but Claire snatches it up and takes a swig before dumping some over Matt's wounds.

"Hey!" Vladimir says.

"Do you want him to get infected?" Claire snipes quickly, giving him a sharp stare, and he quiets down, realizing the wounds may not kill the Mask, but that the infection could if the wounds are left unsterilized and sickly with dirt and dust and whatever else.

"Fine," the Russian says, and settles in to hold a silent, brooding vigil over the nighttime nurse, the best friend, and the vigilante who saved his life.

It's the least he can do for them, and for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: This chapter was a little more difficult for me to write because Foggy was a bit of a problem for me to get in character, but I think I did alright in the end. I hope you enjoyed this, and that you're liking the development going on between Matt and Vladimir and the others, even if our favorite avocado(s) is/are in a bit of a bad state, just like his Russian friend, right now.))


	6. Two Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: This chapter's a little shorter because I was sick while writing it, but I hope you enjoy anyhow!))

Vladimir is asleep, recuperating, when Matt wakes up.

Of course, his rest lasts very little longer, because Foggy and his vigilante savior begin to argue about Matt's night activities, and the Russian opens one eye lazily, slowly turning his head to watch and listen to their bickering- mostly one-sided, as Matt simply tries to explain, from the World On Fire to his motives. 

"And he's a Russian mobster?!" Foggy begs to know, gesturing at Vladimir, who finally zones in and opens both eyes, turning his head and making an affronted expression at the law partner, "Oh, my God, Matt, you aren't just a violent vigilante charged with multiple assaults, you're harboring a criminal overlord in your neon sign lit apartment! Do you even know how illegal this is?!

"He's not a criminal overlord," Matt grits out, "He lost any empire he had when Fisk blew up all five of their buildings." 

"Oh," Foggy says, "Fisk did that? Well, then at least you aren't a bomber, too, along with being a vigilante!"

Matt rests his head back, groaning in misery. 

"He doesn't kill," supplies Vladimir, "Or else, I would be dead."

They both look over at him, and Foggy says, "How comforting, coming the Russian prince of lies over there. You really think I'm going to trust a word you say?"

"I help save his life, didn't I?" Vladimir coughs, and grins crookedly.

"You did?" Matt asks.

"Yes," Foggy says begrudgingly, "We both helped, but like I said, it was mostly your nurse friend, Claire."

"She does not trust me, still," Vladimir adds, a bit dejected, and they both look at him again before promptly ignoring him so they can argue some more.

The former crime lord sighs, leaning his head back again, and lets himself doze off before they can drag his attention back again. After all, their argument is stupid and pointless, in his eyes. He can't see what reason Foggy Nelson has to be so unduly angry about something so understandable, in some eyes, as vigilantism. From an outside perspective, he guesses he can understand Matt Murdock's motives, to be honest.

Not that he will ever understand running into the streets and putting oneself in harms way for the common good.

That? That isn't something Vladimir can understand at all.  
~

When he wakes up again, it's to Matt, sitting there, holding a balloon. "You have a monkey balloon." 

"Yes," Matt says, his voice peculiar. 

"Why?"

"Karen brought it for me," Matt says, and then they are both silent for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Aha, I did foreshadowing! I am proud of myself. This chapter is sort of faintly a filler chapter, because Nelson v. Murdock was sort of a blank for me because I'm sure Vladimir would find Foggy's argument with Matt very pointless, being that he used to be a high level criminal.))


	7. Out to Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Vladimir finally decides to get up and do something this chapter! Congratulations, Vladimir.))

Matt leaving in the later hours signals to Vladimir that, if the hero is healed, then the former mobster is going to be so, as well, no matter if he, or if he has not, healed his wounds. 

First, he gets to his feet. The throbbing in his side is lesser than before, though still agonizing, but after the Gulag? He can handle it just fine, thank you very much. Secondly, he goes to the kitchen and gets himself something he can carry to eat later, before returning to Matt's apartment. He doesn't intend to abandon his savior like an ass; especially not when Matthew Murdock is just starting to intrigue the Russian.

Third, he goes into the lawyer's room and searches until he finds clothes that fit him that aren't wrinkled from eons of his patient sitting on the couch in them, before pulling them on- though not without very much pain in the process- and going to the kitchen again. He gets a long drink of Russian vodka, noting the bottle is emptying, and then goes and takes some money.

Matt really should have a better plan for his cash than hiding it all and then getting it out in plain view of his live in Russian mobster. 

That makes Vladimir sound like a pet. He doesn't like it, and he sneers at the floor while he heads towards Matt's door and then leaves.

The first thing he wants to do is head to the cemetery. He imagines they've buried his brother by now in the grave by the fence, where the grey may make him feel a bit more like he is at home in Russia. He wants to be sure, however, and so there he goes, marching along, gritting his teeth as his side howls, towards the cemetery. 

Certainly enough, the cool ground is once disturbed, the dirt unsettled and solid from the burial and the cool winter air, as he arrives, and he kneels, sweeping one hand carefully over the letters of Anatoly's name with a sigh. 

"The Ranskahov brothers," he says quietly, and then, louder, repeats it. "The Ranskahov brothers! Always together, going to build an empire! Where is that now?" He picks up some earth in his hands, chips the icy bits apart, and then lets it fall into the pile again. "In the dirt," he says, softly, his voice like a razor.

He sits there for a while; he doesn't care if Fisk's men find him. Let them come. In any case, they do not, and he realizes his eyes are stinging and poking with tears unshed as he sits there, letting them freeze against his eyelids, and so he finally stands after a short, bitter time.

"I will make Fisk join you and our dreams in this dirt if it is last thing I do," Vladimir promises gruesomely, and then turns his back, leaving his brother in his wake with a quick step.  


The pavement finds its way underneath his boots again as he walks, and he watches the other people passing by carefully, being sure none of Fisk's men draw near him at all- it wouldn't do to be recognized, much less to be attacked by someone with obviously more fighting ability than he currently does. 

The Russian scans each storefront as he reaches a street of shops, and then decides he wants the good vodka, and heads towards his normal vendor instead, legs beginning to tire as he does, the lactic acid spilling into his muscles.

When he gets there, he feels a relief inside and takes a seat for a moment to rest before going inside. The bottles are stacked where they always are, giving him an easy sense of normalcy, and he takes it, feeling happy and a little calmed as he does. 

He buys the vodka and heads towards Matt's apartment again, caught in a trance that he can't break free of, and finds himself drinking his vodka already as he does.

It's like a cold fog, like being frozen in the Gulag again, in the small cell with Anatoly and the other man, whose name has long left his memory, whether for non-caring or for survival he does not care to admit, but something breaches it when he walks by a door well, and he stops sharply, stepping back into the shadows.

James Wesley has his hand wrapped around the mouth and nose of some blond girl- isn't that Karen Page, the Union Allied problem girl?- and is pulling her towards a car. On second look, he sees a rag in his hand- chloroform, then.

But this is forgotten in the face of his own revenge, in the face of lies told from the right hand man's mouth, borne from his master Fisk's mind, and he loses his self-control as he glares icily at the other man and reveals himself from the shadows.

"My, my," Vladimir says, and slowly lifts a pipe, loose in the alley, "Isn't it good to see you, Wesley. Where's your master, dog?"

"Vladimir," greets Wesley, his eyes coming up smoothly to appraise, and the Russian swings violently, taking no time at all to try and enact his revenge and hate, but the other man drops his unconscious baggage and side-steps it, watching Vladimir miss, stumbling and almost falling as his side throbs. "That was very unintelligent of you," observes Fisk's right hand man, and he strikes Vladimir in his side where he clutches it, "Especially if you actually wanted an answer."

A massive blast of pain screams through the Russian where his side is seared and stitched and simply agonized with the new wound so that he can barely hear Wesley mocking him, the new pressure against the old one, he would suppose if he could still think, and then he, too, cannot breathe, as the ground rushes up to meet him, and when he sees the dark, it has a face for a half-second of James Wesley hovering over him, the rag in his hand now two-times used as he waits to see Vladimir's consciousness slip away, Wesley's voice still talking, still mocking, as his mind goes...

And so it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Of course he got himself into trouble right away. What else would our favorite Russian mobster do when he leaves Matt's apartment, but get kidnapped by Wesley?))


	8. Velocity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: I accidentally posted this early, so it's not as good as I'd like, but I hope you enjoy anyhow!))

The world moves in watercolors, and the feeling comes back before the colors, a burning agony in his side as he opens his eyes slowly, his breathing harsh. The world still isn't there, and for a moment of terror he thinks he's blind- he's like Matt now- before the watercolors swirl together, blurring as he stares at a brown table and then slowly raises his head, groaning in pain. 

The blond woman is coughing next to him, and he blinks at her, then slowly turns his head to look at Wesley. He shifts his wrists, the handcuffs clinking. "She's not handcuffed," Vladimir says.

"She didn't need to be," Wesley says, "Now stop talking, I don't care about you right now. We're going to kill you anyways when I'm through here." He waves a single pale hand, as though telling Vladimir to buzz off with his talking, and the Russian puffs his lips out with his breath in a tiny bun of irritation, glaring at Wesley with icy eyes. 

He slowly scrolls his fingers along the handcuffs, though he's not sure why- it's not like he has any way of breaking free of his binds, so he must be killing time while he waits on Wesley to kill him when he's done intimidating this Karen Page lady that's sitting next to him that he faintly remembers from the whole Union Allied debacle.

Of course, that progresses, and then Karen Page is holding a gun, and she has just shot Wesley dead and polished the table clean. He raises his eyebrows and looks back and forth with interest.

"Wow," he says, "You are more interesting than I thought." She looks over at him, and he looks at Wesley and snickers.

A moment later, he finds himself full on uproariously laughing, and Karen Page stares at him in shock and revulsion. "This isn't funny," she says.

"You didn't know him," Vladimir puts in between breaths, trying to hold himself together at his sides, "I did. It was great." 

She's still for a long moment and then she says, "We need to go." 

"You need to go," Vladimir corrects, "I am going to go home."  
~

The Russian leaves her in his wake, stalking back home. 

When he arrives, Matt is waiting. "Where have you been?" he starts, standing sharply, his uniform still on besides the mask.

"I was kidnapped by one of Fisk's dogs," Vladimir says. 

"How did you get away?" Matt asks, still as tight as a wire. 

"A girl," he says, "Wesley took girl, that Karen Page fool from Union Allied event."

"Karen? What... why..."

"Do you know her?" Vladimir asks, turning around as he peels off his shirt to change it, because it's disgusting after the dusty, woody, gritty room they were kept in.

"Of course," Matt says, "I represented her, she works at the firm." 

"Sad for her," Vladimir says, "She can't get away from this all now."

Matt sighs and says, "Did Wesley hurt you?" 

"He hit me in side."

Matt turns his back and stalks away towards his bedroom. "Then you'll live. Lie down on the couch and rest, Vladimir."

"What about you?"

"I'm getting a new suit. I'll be fine. Better than, in fact." He glances back. "I'll be comfortable as the Devil."

"That wasn't very Catholic of you," Vladimir says to no one in particular, once Matt has gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Vladimir is problematic.))


	9. Questions of Morality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: And I return... Here's a new chapter, and the story starts to get a bit off of the show's line from here, but it will get back on again soon, but since Vlad was there when Karen and Wesley had their confrontation this time, there's a bit of stuff that needs to happen first.))

Matt can't exactly just leave Vladimir sitting around at his apartment when he is the only evidence that the blind lawyer has on Karen having killed Wesley, so of course the Russian is carted along with him to go and see the blonde, against his own will.

"I don't want to," Vladimir argues, rather toddler like, even to himself, and Matt gives a dirty look in his general direction while they cross the street.

"I don't care," Matt reports, his anger simmering beneath the surface as they head towards Karen's building.

"I don't care, either," Vladimir mumbles petulantly, and Matt gives him another sharp turn of his head, silencing the Russian's mutterings as he tucks his hands into his coat's pockets and rubs gently at his irritated bruises. Wesley just had to hit him where he had already been hurt, didn't he?

They approach the door to the apartment building and Matt heads to Karen's door, pressing the buzzer and waiting on her to answer.

"Karen," he says, voice measured and calm- Vladimir wonders at the manipulatory qualities the seemingly kind and unassuming blind man actually has lurking under his surface- Matthew Murdock is much more than meets the eye, and he is the least likely hero, or so the former crime lord is beginning to think.

"Hello?" she asks, a moment later, voice a bit froggy and high- it's clear she's been crying, and the faint slur makes Vladimir think of late nights drinking with his brother. He pushes off the thought of Anatoly and tries to focus on the situation at hand, but loses interest fairly quickly in Matt's affairs and instead goes through the motions- door opens, walk up stairs, through door, into apartment, shed coat.

Karen Page's eyes are unbelievably wide as she stares at him, and he gives her a short look, eyes hardening and sharpening like flint as they look back and forth for all of a second before she says, "You."

"Me," Vladimir says, "You did not expect, no?"

"You know Matt," she says, grimly, and then looks at him for a moment, and back to Vladimir, "You told him."

"Damn right he did," Matt says, and his voice is the eye of the storm, the calm before the return of the rage that Vladimir has seen first hand bleed violently out of what appears to be a typical, harmless Catholic man who would never hurt another- especially being blind, but Vladimir knows that's not so true, that Matt sees in other senses, even if his world may be made of fire instead of visual cues. 

"I don't want to talk about it," she says right away, turning her back sharply and heading to her small kitchen, lit by a tiny lightbulb hovering above it all. 

Vladimir flicks an empty bottle and watches it fall and roll as she grabs for another, hands shaking as she twists it opens and pours a glass of it, trying to drink it.

"Stop," Matt says, unforgiving, and his face is unflinching stone when she looks at him. 

"Leave me alone, Matt," she begs, her voice hardly a whisper in her throat, hardly a spark in the pan, and he shakes his head. It's calm, a movement, no real hardness to it, but it's clear he's resolute. 

Well, he is a lawyer, after all, when he's not playing at being the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, Vladimir reflects.

"She said something about using gun before," Vladimir supplies, and Matt looks over at him.

Karen's eyes widen before she spits, "Stop telling him things!"

"Stay out of it, Vlad," Matt says, voice cool, and this time the Russian listens after a half moment of deliberation. 

"Matt, no," Karen says, as he takes the bottle, but he pours it down the drain and turns back to her, taking her face into his hands. He strokes across her nose, searching for wounds, and through her sopping wet hair hanging in a blonde frame around her head, darkened and small in its water-logged mass. 

"Matt, yes," Vladimir spits out, because he can't resist, and they both turn his way to give him a dirty look before Matt speaks again.

"You aren't injured, right?"

"I don't think so," she answers, voice quivering, and he nods, reaches down, and holds her hands until they steady in his grip.

"Are you safe?"

"They won't know I was the one who did it," she says, "I didn't leave anything, and he said that he didn't want anyone else to find out what was going on, either."

"Good," Matt says, "Then he knew, but no one else did. They won't come after you again, at least unless someone finds the trail he did." 

"Oh," she whispers.

"What?" Matt asks, hearing her heartbeat pick up in the air.

"If we're being honest," she says quietly, "I think I have a few things to tell you about why he came after me that I was going to tell you and Foggy at the office tomorrow."  
~

After they talk, Matt puts Karen to bed and turns to Vladimir.

"We need to make sure this doesn't happen again," he says, and his voice is stiffer than when he spoke to Karen- it lacks the soft element, and a jealousy sparks inside of Vladimir for a second before he squashes it.

"Yes," Vladimir says, "We may get hurt, too."

"I'm going to take Fisk down, and soon," Matt says, and he leads Vladimir down the street, silence between them.

"You don't kill, do you?" Vladimir asks, "So what is your thought on Karen Page killing man?"

"She did it to protect herself," Matt says after a pause, "It's not a question of what I think, it's her. My question of morality doesn't apply for her, she has to... answer it for herself, you could say. Metaphorically, of course, but, you understand, you're a smart man, Vlad."

"Vlad," the Russian tastes, "Anatoly barely called me that. I liked when he did."

"Vlad it is," Matt says, and they both sound a bit savory and a bit haunted as they speak those sentences, leaving their breath in streaks through the air behind them.


	10. K'un L'un

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Guess who's back?))

The door to the apartment opens like a specter in the dark, and Vladimir opens his eyes from his place on the couch- Matt has returned, bringing with him a scent of fire, and a strange aura of displeasure, a continence of inner rage about to boil over.

He can almost feel Matt’s throbbing attention shift to him when he notes the heartbeat and the increasing heat- Vladimir is almost nervous, if he wasn’t aware Matthew Murdock isn’t out to hurt him.

“Gao,” the vigilante starts, testy, his voice burning with the same scent he must smell so much sharper than Vlad does, “She’s convincing people to blind themselves. To- to take away their own sight.” 

“I knew this,” Vladimir admits, his Russian accented voice softer than the usual in the apartment’s deafening quiet, a pressure settling around his ears as Matt takes a long, slow, short breath. 

“I couldn’t stop her,” Matt says, “She was stronger than anyone I’ve ever fought, I think. She’s going to leave now- go far enough even I can’t get her.”

“Once,” Vladimir notes, “She said country’s name. In passing- K’un L’un, she called it.”

“Never heard of it,” Matt seethes, and Vladimir watches, drowsy as he digs in the fridge and then downs a glass of orange juice, his fingers hesitating across the vodka bottles Vladimir has placed there- he must consider it, then, more than usual, but passes for now.

The neon plays in a colorful tattoo across his skin, and he rubs his chest for a second, and Vladimir can imagine how the blind runners attacked him, how Gao must have hit him- the chest, then.

He sighs, sitting up a little, and then asks, “Your stitches did not break, yes?”

“Yeah, they’re fine,” Matt confirms, “What’s left of them. I’m mostly healed, you know.”

“I knew this,” Vlad murmurs, repeating himself blandly, glancing out the window, and he feels strange- subdued, like there’s nothing in him. What if this is their beginning of the end? Fisk will come for him, if he finds out Vladimir is still alive. Wesley is dead, but if another learns of it…

Well, he has means to an end more than just men in the streets- men on rooftops with sniper rifles, for one, and Vladimir chews his lip, fingering the scar he remembers bleeding just before he and Anatoly escaped the Gulag so vividly.

“Fisk will send men, even if you stop him,” Vladimir announces, “You know this.”

“Yes,” Matt says, “I had considered it. I wouldn’t expect much less from the crime kingpin of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Maybe Avengers can help,” the Russian jokes sardonically, but they both know the heroes won’t; their world is shiny and glass and lit, machines and suits full of bright colors and metallic curves and catsuits. 

Matt and Vlad and Karen and Foggy exist in a world made of shadows and grime and grit and bent aluminum fences, with cheap Kevlar and lead. Shattered wood and dust makes up the lining of their lungs instead of plasma shots, instead of Asgardian liquor they sip cheap whisky and Russian vodka from the corner store Vlad likes.

“Yeah, right,” Matt chuckles, finally, delayed, and they sit there in the dark for a long time.

Little do they know what is becoming, right that very moment, of poor Ben Urich, the reporter they had been helped by, he and Vlad barely even cognizant of each other, as he lies in their shadow world, choking under thick hands and Fisk’s dark gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Very short, but it's an update! An important one, I felt when writing it.))


	11. Accusations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: This chapter will address astute notes that Karen did see Vladimir at Matt's apartment when she visited earlier. ;) Good job to all of you who noticed! This one is still pretty short, but I hope you enjoy all the same!))

Vladimir doesn't quite expect when he's puttering around Matt's apartment to get a visitor when the other man is out doing his duties in the streets- for one, probably walking off the funeral of his journalist friend, Ben Urich, who Vladimir has no doubt was killed, quite violently so, by Wilson Fisk, not to mention making the official collection of his Devil suit- or did he do that already? Vladimir is honestly ambivalent, as long as Fisk goes down.

The knock on the door is a surprise, and then a familiar voice, soft, tormented, and yet strong as the bullets in his guns, says, "I know you're in there. I saw you here, before we were attacked, before Matt brought you to my apartment."

"I see you before, yes," he agrees, "But I know nothing."

"Let me in, please," she says, voice muffled through the door, "I just want to talk."

Hesitantly, slowly, he opens Matt's door to the woman and steps aside, allowing her entrance to the vigilante's abode. Does she know who Matt is? Or has that not hit her yet?

"What do you want to talk about?" he asks, sitting down slowly across from her and offering a glass of vodka- she hesitates, then nods, and he pours a couple of fingers into a crystalline glass and hands it over to her, watching her drink it down like mother's milk before adding another to the mix.

"Why is Matt keeping you safe?"

"The same men that want to kill you want to kill me," he says, voice thick, and downs a glass of vodka, the burning nice in the back of his throat, making the skin there, thin and pink, tingle as he licks his lips; they taste like clean glass and high scented alcohol, the taste piquing his taste buds for another quick drink, tossing his head back.

"Did they give you that scar?"

"No, Mother Russia did."

"Oh."

"I am immigrant. Anyways, if you really want to know... I am Vladimir Ranskahov. I was gangster in Wilson Fisk's crime ring before it went bad- Matt is protecting me. My brother is dead." His lithe neck rolls as he takes another drink, trying to numb the pain of that- Anatoly, dead- Anatoly, dead. He can't wrap his head around it, it makes his scar feel tight and taunt and hurting on his face, and it hasn't felt so bad as that in years, goddamn years.

Karen clearly feels a quick, strong dash of fear, and she leans back a bit in her seat, eyeing him as she sips her vodka carefully, trying to gauge if he is dangerous right now or not.

"Relax," he says, "I will not hurt you. Matt would hurt me if I did. I like him too much for that." The former mobster raises his eyebrows and sips his vodka with a note of disdain for his own internal thoughts, squinting a little as he brings one leg up to cross it at the ankle over the other one.

"Okay," she says softly, "What's Matt going to do about all of this?" Her eyes are cautious- blue and wary as the calm sea before a storm, and he smiles, thin, bland, and sharp like a knife's blade.

"He's going to let the Devil out," the Russian quotes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: To be fitting- dun-dun-dun! Well, not quite, but I felt like a dramatic last line warranted something. I hope you are enjoying these chapters- after a couple more, we will get to the finish of Season 1 and I will see if I want to wait until Season 2 to continue this universe, or if I will go on and branch off into my own stuff, per se, with Season 2 influences before it ever comes out. 
> 
> On another note, I love the Punisher casting, oh my! Jon Bernthal is going to be great, I bet! :) See you all next time!))


	12. Two Pronged Beast

Vladimir is watching the news when he sees it- the story of the vigilante, running down the crime lord, the story of a war unleashed in the streets-

-and in seconds he has his coat in his hands, out the door, palming a gun and loading it. If Fisk is caught, he can't allow the big man to go away to prison, because then he will never be able to keep his promise to put their former employer in the ground with his brother. Their dreams can't be left unwatered, to wilt without the blood of revenge.

The former mobster hurries down the street, breath whistling in a cloud out of his mouth, cold air between his teeth, and he is throbbing with anger- Matt didn't tell him he was going after Fisk! That man- that maddening man deceived him! The Russian ducks into an alley and loads the chamber, flicks off the safety, and then he slips past the police cordon, heading for the last known location- but he knows Matt now, can track his vigilante roommate, and he sooner rather than later reaches the alleyway, finding the man he has been getting to know for weeks and weeks clad in his new red and black suit, devil horns squat and pronged on his head, making him a specter of the demon in the shadowed world, something in between reality and a waking nightmare for the gunman.

"Fisk!" he shouts, face contorting around his scar, and the boss looks back, shock registering across his expression, and Matt struggles to his feet again, grabbing his billy clubs even as Vlad snaps up his pistol, wrist feeling strange at the now unfamiliar weight, and that makes him feel weak- he hates feeling weak. He squeezes the trigger once, but the bullet is stopped by the body armor Fisk is wearing under his suit. The Russian curses.

Matt snaps a fist up and shoves Fisk back, dodging between them, and Vlad wonders if the world on fire can show the inferno that is consuming him, making him sweat, run down his pale, scarred skin. "Vlad, don't!" he shouts, blood on the corner of his mouth, and its red like rage, red like roses, red like love, and he loved his brother and he loved his money, and he loved his comrades, but they're gone now- because of Fisk. 

"Get out of way!" he spits, and shaking, and fires past Matt, the bullet singing off of the fire escape, and Fisk stumbles up, but Matt spins and brings down his billy club on Fisk again, and spins to Vladimir.

"You can't kill him, or you'll be just like him," the devil suited man begs, raising each hand and he steps a little closer, Fisk groaning on his knees, still making an attempt to rise. The vigilante gets in his guard- he trusts Matt, trusts him so much, too much, and the other man takes his gun, breathing a sigh of relief.

"What about Anatoly?" Vlad asks, his throat closing up around a lump, and Matt says, "Fisk is going to rot in prison. That's all that matters. No more crime lords. Just criminals, petty men, not one big one. Not a Fisk, not a kingpin."

"I'm not through yet," Fisk grunts, but Matt just turns, casting the gun to the dumpster, or at least in its general direction, and charges in to finish the fight. Vladimir would watch, but his stomach and lungs and mind and eyes are swimming, blurred shapes of confused salt water, and he watches a tear fall to crash, wet, onto the pavement. It's over. It's over.

It's over.

~

Back at Matt's apartment, the other man prepares coffee, clumsily, distractedly- Vlad has never seen him make such a mess, like something is distracting him. He seems like a blind person only recently instead of for years and years with enhanced senses. "Should just make vodka," Vlad murmurs thickly past his runny nose, "Much easier. Much better."

"Not now," Matt responds, voice sharp but shaky, like a dangerous knife, and the Russian sees him coming and stands, taking his mug of coffee and then sinking back down with it, confused by his own reactions, and holds the piping hot mug to his chest, letting it seep into the cold the city left in him as Matt lowers down sorely next to him. 

"Fisk deserved to die," Vlad says, but he's not certain of his own voice right now- didn't he just betray Anatoly, the only person whose ever mattered the way his brother mattered? Sure, Matt matters, maybe someone matters, but Anatoly- he was Alpha and Omega, beginning and end. (Forgive the Catholic expression, but he's decided he's spending a lot of time with Matt and that must be it.)

"That's not our job," Matt mutters, "Not our decision, no matter how much I'd like to- we'd like to make it." He looks conflicted, and Vlad examines his eyes, confident Matt is closed into his own little world right now- he's not settled in, but there's something comforting and safe here on Matt's couch alone with the vigilante, mug in his hands, warming him, gun unloaded and put away, puffer coats forgotten in the closets, suits put away. He feels human and like he's not okay, but he's not breaking into a thousand pieces either, he's not shot up or burnt to a crisp, he is surviving. He's not content, but he's something distantly reminiscent of it.

"I guess," Vlad says, and he sips the coffee, letting the dark flavor slip down his parched, sore throat, past the lump that hasn't gone away since he let Fisk live, and Matt does, too.

He wonders where Karen is, and if she's heard the news- he knows Claire isn't really the same presence anymore, but does she know- who does? It seems like a stupid question, but he wonders anyhow, though he knows its been on the news. Vladimir is alive and he watches the reports and he thinks- maybe this is justice, not enough, no, but justice, at least. Some small degree of it, enough he can lay Anatoly just a bit more peacefully to rest now.

One last thing, first, though.

~

At the grave, he and Matt carry the vodka, and two cups of coffee, cardboard grips. He sets the cups in Matt's hands and pours a little vodka into a shot glass for each of them- Matt balances the coffee and tosses his shot back with Vlad, who murmurs some personal benediction, and then he pours a shot of the vodka onto the grave, wondering if his brother can taste it wherever he is, in his death.

He feels a little closure and sets the bottle in the flower vase made of stone alongside the tombstone.

Then he and Matt walk away, side by side, and he sips coffee instead of Russian booze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Here is the finale of Season 1 of Daredevil! Matt and Vladimir are still friends, don't worry... I think. I haven't decided if I'm going to wait until Season 2 to continue this, but if the feeling strikes me, I will continue prior.))


	13. Whispers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: A special chapter in celebration of the release of Jessica Jones- I may put up a second one in a couple of days, if the other idea I've had pans out! Check it out and see if you recognize someone from episode two...))

Vladimir has been cooped up in Matt's apartment too long- since Fisk's fall, he's been spending most of his time sitting in the vigilante's apartment or following him to work and lurking in the corner- his sense of worth suffering, which isn't even to begin to talk about how disconnected he feels. When was the last time he spoke to another Russian? He can barely remember, and he may be coming to enjoy the company of Matt's friends in some ghostly near way to how he enjoys Matt's, but he still only ever talks to the lawyer, and for as much as he likes the blind man, he also really wants some conversation outside of the idle talk as someone rings up his vodka at the liquor counter downtown, or being tossed tidbits to talk to at Nelson and Murdock before sitting to the side like a bouncer with a very intimidating scar when a client comes through.

"Where are you going?" Matt asks, intrigued, when Vladimir rises and heads to the door after they eat a sparse breakfast of eggs at the table, and the lawyer is reading something on his Braille pad. 

"Out," Vladimir shrugs, "I want to talk to other Russians. See how they are doing, yes? Still my brothers even if we are not crime ring anymore."

"I understand," Matt nods, "I'll be here, if you need anything." Vladimir understands the inference is to just call- despite his blindness, Matt is easily capable of crossing the city quickly and being there to help the Russian if anything goes wrong. Nothing will, though- he's certain of that. When he was still running in crime circles, he remembers that the part of the city he intends to head to was Russian territory- and despite the fall of the inner circle, he knows the area will still respect the Ranskahovs enough to leave him be and speak to him on the state of things when he comes traipsing up.

Vlad heads down the stairs in silence, giving icy stares to anyone who looks too long at him- lately, people have been giving him and Matt these questioning stares, like they have some question lurking on their tongues like in those American videos where people put bugs in their mouths. Revolting, but good for metaphors. He feels like that is how a lot of people are in this city- always considering saying something, their thoughts and words like crickets on their tongues, behind their teeth, but instead of opening their mouths, they hold them inside and act like they aren't there- but everyone can hear the chirping. 

Vladimir has been learning the merits of metaphors.

The former Russian crime lord finds his way to the place easily- he's visited before, when he still walked on high and everyone knelt before he and Anatoly as with lords- now, he's practically their equal, but that's fine. He's getting used to it, just being a man instead of being above all- Matt has taught him a lot of humility, and the merits of the same, though he's not going to try and act like he's not arrogant- he is. Always will be.

Glancing at the spot where that bus crashed a while back, thinking of Claire, the Night Nurse, and the Metro hospital not far away, he approaches the open door and reaches up to rub his jaw, and then calls a greeting. "Hello?" he asks the shadows of the garage, and a form stands up quickly, a winter cap cloaking his head as he approaches.

"Vladimir Ranskahov?" he asks, surprised, and though the man doesn't remember this one's name, he recognizes at least there's some respect, and decides this is better than nothing. 

"Unless my name has changed," he confirms, crossing his arms and tucking his hands under them, watching his breath fog before him- Hell's Kitchen is always so frozen, even if no snow is on the ground. Its just a cold place. Reminds him of home.

"It has been long time," the mechanic says, eyebrows raised, "Are you looking to get back in business?"

"No," Vladimir denies, shaking his head and tightening his lips, his scar straining a bit, "No, not for me anymore. Not without Anatoly. Just looking for conversation. How is everything?"

"Well, not great, but we are getting along," the man explains, bobbing his head and sort of waving his hands in the universal 'so-so' gesture, "Without you two brothers, we don't have much leadership, but void will be filled soon, I would say; but there have been whispers."

Vladimir quirks up at this, interested abruptly instead of ambivalently listening. "Whispers of what?" he asks, stepping closer and tucking his hands into his pockets, furrowing his brow low, blue eyes darkening with consideration.

"Whispers of a man, on the warpath," the mechanic murmurs, "One who has the great men at the top worried- they don't know what to expect. He is almost like the mask- what do they call him now, Daredevil? Yes, like him. Worse, though. Killer, this man."

Vladimir frowns- he won't tell Matt about this, that's for sure, or he'd undoubtedly being running into the streets in full horned garb to find this vigilante- he doesn't agree with killing, no matter the circumstance. Vladimir has blessed this decision, but does not agree- if he had had the chance, he still would have killed Fisk, but he didn't do it- for Matt, deep down, he knows. For Matt, he would not kill- but if he truly needed to, he still would. 

Therefore, he bids his farewell and heads away to go find himself a drink or something like that- promising himself if its his decision, Matthew Murdock will have nothing to do with this new killer vigilante- though he knows that Matt, hard headed as he is, will find out eventually... he can delay the inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: We all know who I am teasing, here... I am ready for season two!))


	14. Dive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Here's the second chapter to celebrate Jessica Jones' release- with a special guest star who everyone will recognize pretty quickly! Sooner than I expected to get this done, but here it is! :) ))

Vladimir has never been to the bar he finds as the sun passes noontime and begins to sink towards the horizon, the light behind the clouds darkening until Hell's Kitchen is growing dim- the dark skinned man behind the counter isn't very talkative, but the Russian feels the opposite as he drinks his second glass of vodka- certainly not Russian quality, but satisfactory to him at any rate. His tastes are growing a little bit less specific, considering his funds are running low without any steady source of income- he used to be a crime lord. Now he's a live in charity case- he tosses back more vodka at that thought and frowns at the bartender.

"What is your name?" he asks, accent a little thicker than usual with his intoxication, and tilts his head, squinting, scar pulling tight across his cheekbone- he can feel it more than usual today. Must be something about the weather, or something in the air. 

"Luke," the man answers, giving a short glance with his dark eyes towards Vladimir, "Cage." 

"Luke Cage," Vladimir states aloud, "I am Vladimir, Ranskahov. Nice to meet you." Matt has taught him manners, too- Matt has taught the Russian many things, most of them things he never would have bothered with as a crime lord in Fisk's inner circle- especially not dead, either. He sticks his hand up and over, and shakes Luke's hand- he's got a firm one, strong enough to startle Vladimir, because most people are intimidated by his Russian accent anymore.

"Nice shake," Luke says, echoing his sentiments, and raises his eyes past Vladimir, "That your friend?" Vladimir turns around and looks, finding Matt dawdling in the doorway, clicking his stick into a smaller form as he scratches his neck, evidently trying to act like he doesn't know where Vlad is by sound and scent alone- the Russian has long since learned that mannerism from the blind man.

"Yes," he says, "Roommate. Matt Murdock." He stands and goes to Matt, acting like he actually needs to guide the lawyer, though the well dressed man just essentially leads Vladimir straight back to the stools and takes his seat, sniffing at the atmosphere- and probably also deciding what he wants to drink, knowing Matt's scent of smell. 

"Bourbon," Matt orders, and Vlad snorts.

"Very manly," he comments, and Luke Cage smirks at their banter as he pours a few fingers into a glass and slides it to Matt, who passes a few bills off in response, paying off his and Vlad's drinks, plus tip. 

"I don't think both of us need to be smashed on the way home," the vigilante comments, tilting his head a little bit and gesturing as he takes a sip of his drink. Sometimes Vladimir swears Matt acts very sighted. 

"No, probably not," Vladimir agrees, and Luke Cage leans over the counter, retrieving his glass, which he hasn't even noticed he's emptied, and filling it one last time, which Matt apparently also paid for when the Russian wasn't looking.

"You are getting me drunk like girl," Vladimir laughs, and Matt snorts, grinning widely.

"Karen could drink you under the table, and so could Foggy," the lawyer retorts, "But I'm sure they wouldn't want to see you in that state."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Vladimir asks, but he's not actually offended- he's grown to very seldom take much offense to Matt's sass, though Foggy can still irritate him fast. 

"Nothing," Matt smiles, chuckling, and hooks his arm under Vladimir's tugging him onto his feet, "You think you can see for the both of us?"

Vladimir remembers their little ruse that Matt doesn't have superhuman powers of hearing and basically everything but sight, and nods quickly, covering up his stupidity with a, "Yes, definitely, I see lots. I see dead people."

"That joke is old," Matt sighs, and guides Vlad far more than Vlad guides him- though he takes out his stick and taps as he does. 

They head back to Matt's apartment, and Vladimir resolutely thinks of what he heard today- he will not tell Matt about the killer vigilante.

A sinking feeling in his guts tells him it won't be long before he won't have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: I hope you've all enjoyed these two chapters! I will be back as soon as I finish Daredevil season 2 when its out, for sure, or may even do special chapters at some point again prior to that!))


	15. Star Wars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Because of popular demand, and the new Star Wars, Matt and Vlad are going to go and see Star Wars with the friends. Filler chapter, obviously, but I just don't want to leave you all waiting until Season 2, I suppose. :) Hope you enjoy!))

Matt isn't stupid- he knows Vladimir is hiding something-or-other from him, but he's also not exactly willing to call the former mobster on it.

Of course, this creates something between them. Whereas he had felt comfort with the Russian before, there's a distinct iciness between them once Matt knows about the secret. There's never an outright lie- never a stutter in a heartbeat or anything of the like, but Matt knows the signs of someone hiding something. He does have a secret identity, after all- which, obviously, reminds him he is going to figure out what to tell Karen. 

Its almost inconvenient to keep hiding his work as the Devil of Hell's Kitchen from her, or, rather, that he's the one doing the work. For now, though, Matt doesn't want anyone more to know who he is under the horns and the red-and-black clouds of kevlar plates across his body when he goes out at night to fight crime.

All these strained relationships bring him to one conclusion; they need something to ease everything. All the tension, still lingering after the Fisk case and Ben's death, with Karen, all the little cracks almost pasted over with Foggy after the big reveal, and the ice between he and the former mobster over the secret Vladimir's keeping- he would like to gloss it over, just for a bit. 

Stress can get to be too much, after all.

Needless to say, Matt knows one big thing everyone will enjoy. He hasn't been one for movies ever since he was blinded in the accident, but he always kept up on one series with the handicap assistance systems, and that was Star Wars- which he knows for a fact Foggy likes, and feels its a safe bet that Vladimir and Karen will at least be able to deal with. 

(Even if this means he has to get all of them in one theater at one time, which will be a feat in and of itself, especially with the certain.. conflicts they could have with each other, even considering Vladimir's frequenting the office as of late.)

Against all odds, Matt manages to get four tickets, and three affirmatives; they are all, apparently, going to find their ways to the movies to see Force Awakens together.

Hell's Kitchen can do without Daredevil for just one night, he knows- it has before, after all. 

"This seems stupid," Vladimir says, the night of their showing, and Matt snorts a little bit, listening to the Russian trying to fix his collar before they leave the apartment. 

"What? The movie?" he inquires, turning his head a little bit to the side to listen closer- the other man's callouses scrabble, more irritated, against the fabric, so Matt stands and shifts carefully past the Russian's orbit, deftly using his own fingers to fix the flap. Its easy after one gets the hang of it. 

"Yes," Vladimir confirms, "American make very stupid concept. Men with light swords." He makes a derisive sound and Matt has to hold back a smirk at that, because Vladimir is dead wrong and soon will feel much the same as the lawyer himself- the vigilante is sure of it. 

Vladimir is confused by Matt taking hold of his arm but says nothing of it- ever since that night at the bar, Matt has more and more often been having Vladimir 'guide' him along the sidewalk, apparently giving his super senses a rest and just putting all of his trust in the blond man. It gives the Russian a certain confused sense of worth.

Not that he had been lacking on at any point along the way anyways; and if he had, he would never admit such.

"This is place?" Vladimir wonders aloud, gesturing at the front of the building, "Very ugly, Matthew." 

"The screens are nicer, I'm told," the blind man advises him, squeezing gently at his forearm, "Hurry up. Foggy and Karen will be waiting. We should find seats before there aren't four together."

As it is, once they enter, Foggy in full attire for the occasion, they have to sit in rows, Foggy and Karen in front of Matt and Vladimir. The theater is a little chilly, just like Matt knows, and he's silent, breathing in. A few people down, a teenager pours a spot of rum into his coke. A few rows forward, someone needs a shower. Behind them, a baby uses the restroom- or, rather, goes in its diaper. He sighs, inhaling closer to Vladimir to drown out the scent.

Sometimes he forgets why he dislikes going into public with these powers- especially overstuffed rooms like these.

The movie starts and Matt slides an earbud into one ear, listening closely to the descriptions of what is going on while he keeps track of everything with his friends and all of the dialogue. Foggy loves it, Karen is confused, and Vladimir keeps huffing, but clearly likes it better and better as it goes on. 

By the end of the movie, Vladimir keeps making comments under his breath, fully aware Matt can hear him, about what an asshole X character is, and how much he likes Y character- Matt can't help but grin when the finale has Vladimir confused and cussing, gripping the vigilante's shoulder.

"We need to watch others," he demands.

"We will," Matt tells him, and there's a distinct feeling of comfort in the parting, despite it being such, when they leave Foggy and Karen and head to the apartment, Vlad's arm warm around Matt's hand as he holds on, still letting the resident Russian take charge.

He feels comfortable- at peace, despite the secret. 

This is what they needed, Matt tells himself, and then tries very resolutely to ignore the vibrating feeling of nerves in his stomach and the way his body feels like its vibrating against Vladimir's coat, his skin beneath, and the bones, steady, under that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: ...or maybe not so much filler as I thought when I started. Matt doesn't understand he has feelings for Vladimir or something? Silly Matt. Denial is for kids! In any case, sorry its short and sort of irrelevant to some mild degree, but I hope you like it anyways. :) ))


	16. Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: SEASON 2! Here comes the Punisher... >:) ))

Matt wakes up and Hell's Kitchen smells acrid and too close and he knows its going to be a bad day. 

Not just a bad day, he corrects, when he senses Vladimir is already drinking vodka, and, by the sloshing, has drank about half a bottle, but a truly Bad day, with a big ol' capitol 'B.'

Matt slides from his bed and wraps his suit around himself before looping his tie around his neck- today, for as much as he loves being a lawyer, it feels like a noose. Today...

Vladimir looks up when Matt enters, and the Russian's voice reaches his ears a moment later, "I did not make breakfast. Your job today."

"Sure, Vlad," Matt murmurs, approaching the counter, and for a moment or so he's blissfully lost in cutting his vegetables and eggs up, hashing them together and scrambling them on the skillet as carefully as he can, feeling around for a stray plate he knows is somewhere, and then collecting forks for them both. 

"Only one plate?" Vladimir snorts as Matt sits, "You are lazy today, Matt."

"Maybe," Matt acquiesces, and scrapes the food into place, sitting down beside the former mobster.

"Did you go out last night?" his companion inquires, leaning in to steal a particularly peppery bite from the lawyer.

"Yes," Matt responds, eyes lowered to the table, thinking of flinging his body this way and that as bullets flew. He always wins, though.

"Get hurt?" Vlad wonders.

"No," Matt shakes his head, stony and automatic, "I don't get hurt, you know that."

"You have got hurt before," the Russian disagrees, shaking his head, "I have seen sore Matt. Very cranky. Even if you pretend you are not."

"Hm," Matt mutters, not in the mood for the needles Vladimir throws when he's in a mood, and scoops more eggs into his mouth, chewing robotically and trying to convince himself to enjoy them, despite the rubbery way they run between his teeth. Normally, he does enjoy this meal- simple, healthy, and good- but today, not so much. 

"You are late," Vladimir tells him, unhelpful, when Matt gets done and rises, headed for his laptop and bag, reaching for the door handle and twisting it with a vengeance. 

"I know," Matt grates out, and shuts the door behind him with an irritated click. 

~

A long day at work ends with a long night- a bar, essentially a new age speakeasy, found full of Irish mobsters, chock full of shot? Not the kind of thing Matt likes to find in his city.

The door shuts behind him with a creaking and a thud and he listens- Vladimir is on the couch, apparently having laid around all day while Matt worked. A contempt in his throat is almost choking.

"You know," he says, "You could get a job."

"I am wanted man," Vladimir dismisses.

"Everyone's forgotten you," Matt spits, "You're overestimating the importance of your operation to Hell's Kitchen. They have a new problem every Friday, you're old news in their minds. I'm sure they wouldn't blink twice at you selling them their booze or something."

Vladimir falls silent, but Matt can smell a change in the air- hormones, anger, and then he hears a rising heartbeat and Vladimir hisses, "Forget me? They never forget me. I am Ranskahov."

"You were," Matt corrects, "Now you sit on a couch all day long and drink vodka while you wait for me to come home so you can talk to me some more until I leave to fight criminals. Then you drink and sleep some more."

"Where did this come from?" Vladimir asks, standing and walking towards Matt, and the vigilante has to stop himself from shoving the other man, his arms open wide with question as he stands there in front of the lawyer on the (still cracked) landing at the bottom of the steps into the apartment. 

"I've been thinking a while," Matt bites out, "I'm just finally saying something. I'm tired of being nice, Vlad. I'm good at what I do- but you? You're good at doing nothing. Start working, okay? I need to get out there."

He heads for his trunk, but a hand, tight and quick, curls around his arm, and Vladimir pulls him back. 

"Stay in a night," the Russian demands, "We talk."

"Talk about what?" Matt asks, feeling a new sense of disgust as the smell of alcohol brushes his face thickly- he's okay with booze, he really is, but not the way that Vladimir seemingly sits around drinking the vodka all day.

"I don't know," the former mobster snorts, brow knitting, "But... I'm not drunk, Matthew, stop making face."

"I think you are," Matt answers, trying to jerk loose.

"I have high alcohol tolerance," Vlad dismisses. 

"Sure," Matt says, "The street criminals also have a high Daredevil tolerance. I need to go."

"Stay," Vladimir repeats, trying to pull Matt towards him, but the vigilante jerks loose, effectively this time, and kneels to pull out his suit, feeling the grain of the maroon fabric rubbing his fingers and the plates of kevlar hard against his angered grip.

"No," Matt says simply, and starts putting on his other suit.

~

Two days later, Matt has a bullet in his stomach and there's a new killer running around Hell's Kitchen.

"Guess secret is out now," Vladimir sighs, sitting across from Matt.

"Secret?" Matt grunts, rubbing the under-portion of his jaw, as if there's still something to clean off. The blood there, however, has already been wiped away.

"I knew about vigilante," Vlad admits, looking down, because even though he knows Matt's gaze is primarily vacant, it is still violently unnerving to meet his eyes when they are full of that idealistic indignance, almost glowing pale blue in the horror that the Russian never told him.

"Nevermind," Matt finally sighs.

"By the way," the former mobster realizes aloud, "You do too get hurt."

"Ha-ha," Matt grumbles dryly, voice soft and hoarse, but then they are both chuckling anyways and the vigilante makes a pained sound.

When they're silent again, Vladimir sighs and rubs his face- he has to take care of Matt better, apparently, even after all this time of the other man being Daredevil.

"Your heart is beating fast," Matt notes aloud.

"I'm worrying," Vladimir admits.

"About?"

"You."

They are silent again. Matthew Murdock asks people to stop worrying about him all the time- but this time, he stays silent. Foggy has been proven right by Matt's headstrong pursuit of the killer vigilante- he'd rather not deny it to Vladimir when he's already been proven right to begin with.

Matt does get hurt. People are going to worry.

He supposes that's the way of things, when he worries about them, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: I don't know if any of you are big Punisher fans, but I am a big Punisher fan. In any case, there is going to be pain on the way for this fic. Once again... >:) ))


	17. Dogs of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Um, where have I been? I don't even know. In any case, here's a new chapter! I hope you enjoy!))

Vladimir feels off center in the world, after all the time he's spent alone with Matt, even now that he's been pretty much in the clear for a few months, capable of wandering into the world, mostly, wanton and at random. No one around here is going to recognize him and try to take him out anymore- the gangs that he was once a part of when they warred for Hell's Kitchen have long since melted aside, made way for new ones, or older ones, in the case of the biker gang that he's been hearing murmurs of lately from his old contacts at the body shop. He shakes it off, though, the discomfort of being without the blind man near his side, close enough to reach out and grab his elbow for steadiness- because he's man enough to admit that it's not just some latent concern for the other, despite his abilities, but also something for himself, something to center the Russian when he's feeling like he's sliding off the axis, ready to float from the surface of the world. It must be a leftover of when he almost died, and Matthew saved his life, despite everything between them.

He throws these musings to the back of his mind when he reaches the corner store, and digs in the pockets of his jeans, his jacket, until he finds cash, and starts thumbing it out as he grabs a bottle of milk- they have plenty of vodka, since he's been cutting back lately, a tired kind of itch in his brain at how often Matt makes some sharp comment that he can't bite back at because his mind is slowed by his near constant drinking, but he tried to eat cereal this morning and found he couldn't, seeing as he can't tolerate the stuff dry. It makes him think, though he would never say so out loud to anyone, probably, of the shit-headed guards at the prison in Russia forcing Anatoly and him to eat dog food to stay alive, the crunch of it, sickeningly thick in its flavor, salty to the point that he would find himself opening his mouth, letting the water from the ceiling drip into it, tasting sweet from the dirt.

Vlad hears the ding of someone entering as he shuts the fridge, and turns to head for the counter, a man with his hair cut into the typical American high-and-tight military style passing alongside him, dark eyes seeming to catch on the Russian for some reason. Then again, that reason is probably his scar, as it often is when people stare, so he dismisses it, his scowl tugging at the tissues around the mark on his face, and then goes to the front, paying up and bagging Matthew and his milk. The air in Hell's Kitchen smells like rain when he steps out, and the bite of the cold on his lips is a bitter reminder that New York is sometimes more like his mother country than he'd like, so he starts home with a vengeance in his step.

The door thumps in its frame, delayed, as the man follows him out of the store, scowling to himself. Vladimir wonders, absently, what was out of stock that's got the soldier pissed off. 

Then, a strong hand wraps around his elbow and thrusts him into an alleyway, back to the wall. He drops the milk despite himself, and his fingers scrabble at the bricks, at his own side, hunting for the gun that he's got hidden in his coat whenever he's away from Matt's side, and, sometimes, even when he's with the blind man, feeling like he needs it to make sure that they're protected when it's unlikely that the other could do anything without outing himself, his abilities, and his secret identity.

"No," the dark haired man declines, teeth bared, face twisted into a snarl, "You keep that shit right where it is, or I'm gonna snap your wrist."

Vladimir stills, his blue eyes casting daggers at the soldier. He remains still, all the same, though he's itching to shoot the man, and ask questions later, Matthew's opinions be damned. "What do you want?" he spits the question, his accent making the inquiry yet more biting. He feels like a mad dog, tugging at his leash, in this case, the man's arm across his chest, holding him back to the dirty alley wall.

"Vladimir Ranskahov, right?" the other man shoots back, "Ex-boss of the Russian mob around here?"

"What's it to you?" the former criminal bristles, unwilling to deny his past, but also ready to make clear that he doesn't do that anymore, in fact, opening his mouth to do so before he's interrupted.

"You're lucky," the soldier tells him, voice low, dangerous, as heavy and dark as stones, teeth flickering behind his split lips, looking like he's been in a fight recently, "The Maggia killed my family, but your guys weren't here yet. Otherwise, I'd have already killed you. As it is, all I want from you is to make sure- you're out, aren't you? Because if you aren't..."

Vladimir can feel something stiff against his stomach, and knows immediately that it's a gun, the cold seeping in through his shirt a moment later, the circle probably indenting his flesh, wrinkling his shirt, with the force that the man who's jumping him presses it into his belly. He squirms angrily, feeling yet more likely to grab for his own weapon and try to fire on the other, consequences from the law, Daredevil, or the immediate threat, be damned.

"I'm out," he squeezes between gritted teeth, barely parted lips, "I have better things to do now. And besides, that shit killed my brother. I wouldn't run a gang without him."

"Good," the soldier snarls out, his breath, stinking of poor American coffee, dusting across Vladimir's face, "Keep it that way. I've got enough names to cross off my list without you getting back into the middle of it."

Then, before Vlad can respond, he cold-cocks him with the butt of the gun, and the world explodes into pain, first, and then, very quickly after, total darkness.

~

Being knocked out is not like in the movies- Vladimir is awake again within a minute, and it's a good thing, too, or else he's sure he would have brain damage, and probably be halfway to the hospital on Matthew's back by now. As it is, his head just hurts like Hell, and he thinks he might have a concussion, because the world is fuzzy and sways a little bit even once he has his feet under him, headed back towards the apartment.

Once he makes it there, climbing the stairs is a yet larger task, but he manages it, struggling until he stumbles in the door, and then sagging against it, licking his lips and breathing deeply to keep from vomiting from the throbbing in his skull. He's been hit a lot of times, and the only other time someone has rocked him like this was when he and Matthew fought in that disgusting warehouse the night he almost died.

Speaking of Matt...

The lawyer, not needing to be called out for, obviously, due to his powers, has come curtly around the corner, his hands quickly tucking under Vladimir's arms; he drags him to the couch and sets him down before handing him an aspirin and a glass of water, taking the milk, still clutched in the Russian's hand, to the kitchen. 

"You knew what happened by the time I was on stairs, yes?" Vladimir inquires, coughing after he downs the pain reliever.

"Yes," Matt confirms, "Well, I knew you were hurt. What did happen?"

"Man attacked me," Vlad explains, shortly, "He said Maggia killed his family. He wants revenge."

"Well, if I had to bet, we're talking about the killer vigilante," Matt decides, his head angled low, his fingers steepled pensively before his face. 

"I am betting man," the Russian grunts, adjusting in his seat, "And I agree."

Matt smiles thinly and stands, grabbing his jacket. "I have to go," he tells his roommate, "Take care of yourself today. I'll be back tonight, and I'll check on you then, and decide if we need to see about medical attention then."

"Aw," Vladimir smiles, sardonic, "You do care." In all honesty, he is glad to hear it, even if he already knew it, in such explicit terms. He likes it when Matt shows concern for him, when their often nearly antagonistic relationship has these sudden moments where he's aware that he and the vigilante in disguise are so intrinsically tied together- but he supposes they have been ever since the other man saved his life... and he's just kept doing so each and every time he needed to since.

Matt smirks, and makes his exit.

"See you tonight," Vladimir tells the door as it closes, and settles back, his mind beginning to slow as he prepares to sleep it off, and wait for Matthew's return.

Despite the concussion, the still-dully-throbbing headache, and the fuzzy vision?

He's good. In fact... he's almost sure he's never been better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Punisher!! Also, I think we're really getting somewhere now...))


	18. Soldier On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: I am very behind on this fic, why am I still back in Season 2? I need to hurry if I want to keep with Defenders. Also, I really should have tagged 'Slow Burn' with how long it is taking these two to get together... Anyhow, hope you enjoy the chapter! :) Edit: I added 'Slow Burn' to the tags.))

Matt's blood is singing in his veins as he hunts- it's been days since the vigilante's attack on Vladimir, and he's hunted almost non-stop since then, even brought Karen and Foggy in on it, asked them to find him whatever information they can on the man who's been drilling military-level hardware into the streets of Hell's Kitchen and popping bullets through windows and heads of the local gangs' best and brightest, taking down Maggia and bikers and Yakuza and members of Wilson Fisk's former Empire alike, left and right, leaving trails of bodies and rivers of blood in his wake.

Now, he's on the trail of the scent of gun oil, his eyes squinted in their sockets, obviously more in emotion than necessity of any means, until they're basically slits behind the helmet of his suit, and he's sure he's about to catch up to the man, to the scent of sour sweat and musk and smoke, and, beneath that, rust, but not the kind that spreads across wheels, but that that fills veins instead. The man has killed again, or at least is about to, of this he is sure.

The vigilante flings himself over a short lip on the next roof over and then halts, his boots skidding and spitting gravel down to the street below. He hears, faintly, people below murmuring with surprise and then gasping, pointing, awed, up at the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. After all, he's an urban legend, and one that some worship keenly, at that, one with a certain power over these people, over these parts, both keeping them closely coiled in his metaphorical safe embrace and threatened enough by his presence to remain on the straight and narrow. He knows times are hard, but some people need to be reminded they can make it through without resorting to less lawful means to do so.

He darts to the side, makes his way down the fire escape on the side of the building, and then flits down the alleyways, making a fast turn here and there, until he's approaching three- formerly- vacant warehouses. Inside, he can smell emotions- fear, anger, blinding mixtures of the two, leading him to believe there's a fight going on. This is only confirmed by the sounds of flesh impacting flesh, faint, even to his ears, at this distance, and, slightly louder, the strikes of bones hitting each other, of teeth caving in and knuckles cracking.

Matt moves forward among the shadows, glad for the streetlights being out. He's finally going to catch the killer vigilante, and, after tonight, this will be over; the man won't ever threaten Vladimir again, won't ever kill in Matt's city again, won't start a fire that won't go out, not like Fisk did.

As soon as he enters the door, the atmosphere stills- it has a certain potential to it, like kinetic energy has been imprisoned here, like the dusty scent of the air, the distant smell of rot and decay of the most industrial sort, is in the very physicality of the place... and yet, there's a wetness, too, undoubtedly influenced into existence by the blood from the other vigilante's victims.

Or, Matt thinks, darker things welling up, the man himself. He isn't certain that he would mind if the dark vigilante got a little bit more hurt than the Devil himself would care to do himself, not after his attack on Vlad.

He ducks behind some pillars, where he can almost feel the cloying darkness press against his skin, certain that he will remain unseen, moving at a predator's stalk through the building, until, finally, he has located his mark- the vigilante, gun discarded on the ground somewhere near the far side of the room, where Matt declined to hide, empty, if the lawyer had to guess, judging by the hollow sound when it gets kicked in the scuffle that's occurring. Fists impact ribs, jaws, eye sockets, noses, and there are wet crunches every few seconds. The man is clearly not one to be trifled with by the lesser criminals of this place. They aren't seeming to measure up to the killer, after all.

After a momentary pause, holding his breath in to be sure he has everyone's location down pat, Daredevil moves forward, almost ethereal until he strikes, quickly shifting into a bruising brutality from his stalking stride, beating billy clubs on criminals as he moves among the crowd, making sure to keep an ear on his fellow vigilante, just in case the other man tries to cut and run at the sight of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen appearing in the midst of the fight and attacking.

Matt can hear a gun cock, and curses his bad luck- he missed it, but there was a sniper setting up somewhere near the rafters when he was scoping the crowd out, and now they're taking aim at the group. He'd bet his bottom dollar they've been employed by whoever is the boss of these criminals, and that the sights are either going to fall on the killer or the Devil himself.

"Get down!" he shouts, voice rough and loud and sudden, a gunshot of its own among the general, strange quiet of the fight, formerly nothing but quiet beating, stomps of boots, and huffs of breath, in the empty open. 

He can hear the other vigilante hit the floor, not questioning. He does the same, and practically slithers forward, thanking his lucky stars he's a pretty limber guy, as he heads back for the pillars, hoping to make his escape before the sniper fires.

No such luck.

A crack rings out, and Matt sucks in a breath and stifles a yelp when the bullet bores into the fleshy side of his waist, tears apart the soft parts there. He manages to make his way into the shadows all the same, and drags himself up, focusing his hearing. Most of the criminals have evacuated, evidently not ready to continue fighting, or, for the matter, perhaps not aware that the shooter is, indeed on their side.

Meanwhile, the killer vigilante has retrieved his pistol, and, it sounds like, is either loading that or another weapon. Matt's not focused enough to tell for sure which it is, but, if he was forced to decide on one or the other, would make the general assumption it's a rifle that the other is working to prepare for the second stage of this fight. 

He almost snorts at himself- second stage, like this is a stupid arcade game, and not a literal fight for his own life at this point. He reminds himself that, despite the importance of what he does, Vladimir is relying on him quite a bit still. Dying here is no option at all.

The Devil grits his teeth, and, swallowing his pride, starts stumbling back towards the entrance as gunshots begins to thunder throughout the place. If he wasn't trying to keep himself from losing blood, he might even plug his ears, try not to hear the stony, final sound of a body dropping from above to hit the floor, and the heavy footfalls of the killer, his boots sounding like shots of their own in the newly reborn quiet, all of these translating to guilt. Another life lost, because he failed.

Matt forces it down, and focuses on getting home to his Russian roommate alive. It's not, he must admit, an easy undertaking, in either respect.

~

Vladimir is asleep, of course, when Matt slides in the door, locking it solidly behind himself and then slumping onto the couch, stripping his suit numbly away from his own chest and probing the wound. He hisses, not surprised that it hurts something fierce, but, in the end, glad, when he finds that it's a clean wound. The bullet went all the way through, meaning that he won't have to worry about getting it out. That part, he reminds himself, always hurts like shit, even more than the sterilization with the alcohol.

He grabs the first aid kit that the Russian put under the table to make nights like this more convenient, and, indeed, less painful, and dumps some rubbing alcohol out onto a cotton ball, swabbing the wound with a long, pained sound that he mutes as much as possible.

All the same, he can hear the other man stirring on his cot in the corner, slowly sitting up, a groan rising in his chest as his ribs and his spine pop, noisy so far as Matt's enhanced senses are concerned, and, then, his heartbeat picks up, breathing rasping louder in his throat, as he sees the vigilante on the sofa cleaning off a gunshot wound.

"Again?" Vladimir asks, a certain mixture of fear and indignance in his accented voice, and he approaches quickly, quiet and cat-like, from across the room, "Let me help. I am good at cleaning gunshot wound. Cleaned many for Anatoly."

"Go ahead," Matt volunteers, letting go and focusing on not hurting himself further by tightening up and making the muscles pull at the wound while his roommate swabs the wounds clean and begins a quick stitching job on it, which was, so far as the lawyer is concerned, more than he asked for. Not that it bothers him, but he hates inconveniencing the people that matter most to him, and, as he sees it, Vladimir is right up there with Foggy and Karen.

"The other vigilante?" the Russian wonders, when he delivers the Devil of Hell's Kitchen a few fingers of vodka, probably trying to take the edge off for the now un-masked man.

"The killer," the wounded man confirms, and, slowly, turns himself, gripping the couch so that he can slide down onto his back, "I'm just going to sleep here. It's more convenient. Especially if I need to clean the wound if it starts swelling while I sleep."

"Okay," Vladimir nods, "And Matthew?"

"Yeah," Matt breathes out, finding he's already shutting his eyes, surprisingly comforted by being here, home, with the Russian, "What, Vlad?"

"You wake me up if you need me," the other man tells him, a certain, strange vulnerability in his voice, and Matt almost feels swollen with emotion, then, turning his head and wishing he could see the look on his roommate's face in that moment, wishing he could experience the full feeling of it all.

"I will," he confirms, heart slamming against his ribcage for some reason- but, then, so is Vlad's.

"Good," the other man nods, and, then, they part to sleep.

Matt wonders what all this means, and then wonders little as he drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: This probably happens a few days before the episode when Frank ties Matt up on the roof, if I had to give you a timeline for where the chapter fits. :) Hope you liked it!))


	19. Hands in the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Wow, I've been gone for ages! Okay, this part takes place significantly later in the season than the last chapter, so know that as you're reading! Matt is in full swing with his war against the Hand at this point.))

Matt has been in and out for days on end, darting in and spending a few spare moments at home before disappearing again.

He also, by happenstance, or perhaps less so, has not put the Devil costume in the trunk for the entire last week and a half. Vladimir checked. Multiple times. Every single day.

He's beginning to grow worried- Matt has also been dragging this girl in his wake, one with the night streaming down her shoulders and calling itself hair, and a costume that isn't much different. Maybe the lawyer hasn't noticed, because maybe he can't sense- however he does that, because Vlad isn't sure, if it's 'hearing' or 'smelling' or what- the blades at the woman's belt, but the Russian has. He isn't entirely convinced that she and the Devil of Hell's Kitchen's goals are aligned in even the slightest order of magnitude, given that.

After all, Matthew Murdock is no killer. Vladimir should know- it's the only reason he's alive, because the Man in Black refused to let him die, dragged him practically kicking and screaming out of those sewers and brought him back to life, not only in the physical sense, but in a metaphorical one, too. Vlad had been lost before Matt had saved him. Like a born again religious man, his soul was forced back into his body when the lawyer gave him something he hadn't known outside of Anatoly in ages- home. 

What comfort is there to a world of crime, to a world where the only person that the Ranskahov brothers could really trust was the other, to a world soaked in blood, dripping down every building, coating it like a painting that would never dry, because it only kept coming? That was a hopeless world- and with Matt, there is this sense of endless hope, hot and sunny, that resides inside Vladimir's chest, just behind his solar plexus, a feeling of hope like he hasn't felt since the day Anatoly and he decided that they were going to break out of the prison and build an empire in the promised land of America, just like that.

This new woman though, in her black and red, with her eyes flashing every time she looks at Vladimir, some wrong-sense boiling in him at the sight of her, an emotion he can't fully manage to define but in the terms of rejection and anger, threatens him- he sees in her a cynicism, and a dark side, that seems to infect his close friend every moment she spends near him. He is concerned, at the core of his being, where his stomach growls when he checks the fridge and finds the groceries are all gone, since Matt usually does the shopping, having long since decided Vladimir's tastes range from not good to very bad, that the hope that the lawyer embodies without feeling it, the hope he gives the Russian, might die a horrible death by those deceptively sun-kissed sai that this Elektra woman carries at her belt while walking beside his roommate.

Then again- what is there for him to do about it?

It's an easy answer, and one Vladimir has been building towards slowly but surely, so he goes to the couch and kneels and lifts the cushions, reaches into the under layers, where the wood-workings that hold it together, not altogether sturdy, set within the fabrics. He takes hold of the solid butt of his favorite pistol, a .9 mm black one, classic and heavy but not too heavy, and cool to the touch. 

It feels like coming home when he hefts it, and the light inside of him winks like fog is sliding in front of it, like the batteries or the bulb is going out after night has set in.

Perhaps this Elektra is the night- or perhaps it was Matt's destiny to eventually slip to a point where Vlad would have to save him... save him, in turn for how the vigilante had saved him, dragging him out of the stinking shadows of the sewer and into the real world, where things feel better, to some degree.

He sticks the gun in the back of his belt, solid against the same side of his hip, walks out the door, and locks it behind him.

He doesn't know if he'll ever come back here again, but that's okay, as long as he makes sure Matt Murdock stays the man he's supposed to be- the man that is everything and more to Vladimir's new world.

There is one last thing, though, to say goodbye to before he goes to war for his friend.

~

He kneels low before the gravestone, careful to make sure his jacket doesn't pull far enough up as to expose, firstly, the black mass of the gun that is settled against the lowest portion of his tailbone, and, secondly, his pale ass.

He runs his fingers across the indentations, the words cut into the heavy marble slab, and keeps his eyes closed, tracing them like Matt would if he were here, trying to keep up appearances that he can't at least a little bit 'feel' what the stone says without ever touching it. The other man has only ever come to see Anatoly twice with Vladimir, but every time he has done this, knelt and felt the stone with his fingers, giving his roommate's brother a reverence that is strange- why afford him such a thing?

The only logical answer has always rocked Vladimir to his core, always left him feeling touched in the deepest emotional way- it is for Vladimir's sake, because this is his brother, and he loved Anatoly, still does, to this day. Anatoly will always be as integral to him as the crux of the wheel of his life that Matt has become. They are of equal importance to the Russian, now, and one will probably never surpass the other, no matter if Death do them part or not.

"I might be seeing you soon, brother," he says, quiet, and then rises again, adjusting his jeans and his jacket until they are crossing one another, concealing the bulge of his weapon in the hindquarters of his pants. 

"Or I might not."

He hopes the second is true- he quite likes his life with Murdock, and wants it to go on for at least a bit longer. Perhaps quite a bit longer.

All the same, if this is the end of it, he is glad for what he got- and that he can at least do his damnedest to keep the man as he is, instead of changed by the dark days that have come to settle upon his shoulders, the other vigilante, the Punisher, the woman, Elektra, and the strange, unnamed enemies he fights in the dark of the night.

Soon, Vladimir knows, he will meet them- and when he does, they will have Hell to pay for what they have dragged Matthew into. He will make sure that they feel fire, even if he has to stick his hands into it with them to make it happen.

For Matt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: I would like to say I actually really love Elektra, it's just Vlad that seems to hate her when he's talking! Hope you enjoyed, even if it might be a little shorter than my normal! :) ))


	20. Bullet Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: This is a big chapter for this story! It's really going to move the plot forward in terms of where it's going from here, and it does a lot of legwork for the ship... :) Hope you enjoy!))

When Vlad went looking for Matt, he did not expect to find ninjas fighting his roommate on a rooftop, with the killer vigilante across the street unloading rounds into their midst, but, here he is.

Is Matt letting the Punisher, as they call him now, kill people? That's very not like Matt. Vladimir's heart picks up its pace and he pushes out the door onto the roof, gun in hand, trying his best to sneak towards the skirmish so he can get the drop on at least one or two of his friend's enemies, maybe lessen the burden Murdock is carrying at the moment.

Of course, as fate would have it, that is not to be the case- instead, with a glinting silver smile of moonlight off of a blade, two of the red-and-black suited ninjas turn his way, silent as death, and brandish their weapons. He levels his gun with a second hand, sure he's going to need to make sure every shot is true, lest he miss and end up with a sword in his heart instead of the throbbing insistence in it now, telling him nothing but to help Matthew.

He yanks the trigger, and the ninja on the right flips out of the way of the bullet. However, he predicted this- he knew Nobu long enough. He swivels his form, and the man catches a round in the stomach when he lands, and topples onto his back, struggling back to his feet only to take two in the chest. During this, though, the other ninja has advanced on Vladimir, and he barely manages to dodge a long swipe with the blade in his hand.

Then, one of Daredevil's billy clubs soars over, and skids back into Matt's hand a moment later.

"Vlad?" he asks, breathless, gruff, sounding surprised- and, then, before the Russian can answer, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen leaps back into combat with his own set of baddies, while the ninja he knocked down for his roommate gets back up.

"Shit," Vlad curses, and squeezes the trigger three times fast, pounding three bullets into the ninja's chest- he doesn't feel too bad, since, apparently, it's okay to shoot these guys dead, for some reason, seeing as Matt is gladly letting the Punisher do it. He also hasn't stopped to admonish Vladimir, which is a very good sign, considering the Catholic lecture he normally gets when he mentions killing off-hand, in a not-serious way, since he doesn't do that anymore.

Does killing the ninjas attacking them make that didn't do that anymore, since he's doing it right now? 

He decides he doesn't care- he's not worried about morality. Not his own at least- he's worried about Matthew Murdock, more than anything else, worried about the man hiding in the Daredevil mask.

So the Russian loses himself in the fight, in remembering that he is doing this for one thing- for the only thing left in his life that really means anything, because he lost Anatoly long ago, and Matt has been there for him nearly ever since. He's here for Matt now- he's pretty sure that's what really counts, in all of this, not the bullets he pounds into the ninjas attacking them, not the way some of them topple off of the sides of their rooftop battleground as they dance like a cruel performance between the drumbeats of the Punisher's sniper rifle. All that matters is Matt.

Then, at last, Matt, mask knocked off or removed somewhere during the fight, if it had ever been on, because that wasn't important to Matthew, stumbles over, and slumps like the air might be able to hold him up he's wasted so much of himself on this fight. 

"We did it," he tells Vladimir, "You... what are you doing here?"

"I came to help," the Russian explains, "Didn't want you to lose self. You're only good thing I know."

"I- what?" Matt asks, looking incredibly confused, and Vladimir can't figure out any other way to say it, so he's struggling to find any other words to say when all of the sudden something hits him, hot-sharp-hard, and he is thrown onto his back, shoulder screaming in agony.

The cracking report of the gun barely makes it through the haze of his pain, but he knows immediately that the Punisher has shot him in that moment, and there's nothing he can do about it as he starts fading into darkness, clutching at the blood running freely from the joint.

~

Matt hears the gunshot immediately upon the trigger being pulled, hears the shifting of the trigger faintly, and leaps- but he doesn't beat the bullet, and finds himself listening, overwhelmed, to Vlad's cries of pain, which quickly fall silent. The Russian's heartbeat sputters and then speeds up, but remains active, so Daredevil spins to face where he knows the Punisher looms on the roof of a far building.

"No," he says, trying to move his lips as clearly as possible, hoping Frank is looking, hoping he'll understand, "He doesn't do that anymore. Frank, stop. If you care about what I think at all, then stop. I promise I won't let him ever go back to what he was before. You have my word."

Can Frank even read lips? The Devil of Hell's Kitchen supposes all he can do is hope so, because otherwise there's a fair likelihood that the Punisher will shoot him in the leg and then kill Vlad all the same.

"No, Matvey," Vladimir pleads, apparently waking up, a new nickname on his lips, and Matt can almost feel the grimace he certainly has on his face right now, for a multitude of reasons, "Let him. I'm not worth it- you're too important."

He waits, listens, and breathes. 

There are no gun sounds, no shifting of bullets in barrels or twisting of dials on scopes.

"See you around, Red."

He hears it as faintly as the wind across the street whistling against the bricks, and then there is not even the dirt-sweat-dust-gun-oil scent of the Punisher.

He slumps in place, feeling victorious.

"Let's get you home," he tells Vladimir, turning and bending at the middle, lethargic, to drag his friend up onto his shoulders.

"Let's go home," Vladimir agrees, faint, slurred, and passes out again.

Matt calls Claire.

~

When Vladimir awakens, it is dark except for the bright neon of the sign outside the blackout curtains he's tried to hang across the windows in the living room, partly open now.

"Matt?" he asks, when he sees Murdock standing near one, outlined by the purple and blue hues, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Vlad," the vigilante answers, muted, and the light shines through his red glasses, casting a strange shade where it does.

"I am okay?" the Russian wonders, and feels his bandaged shoulder before hissing in pain.

"As okay as you'll be for a while," Matt answers, then, and comes closer, out of the shadows, showing the shadows on his face are not just physical, but emotional, something hanging heavily on him, "The bullet broke a good bit of your bones in your shoulder. Claire left you some information about at-home physical therapy to help you get back on your feet."

"Thank you," Vlad says, bitter about how weak that makes him sound, but also aware he needs it, and that neither his roommate nor the nurse are trying to say anything about him with the offering of something that most would see as very kind.

"I'll help you," Matt says, "Every night."

"What about Devil?" Vlad asks, confused, "Will you stop being Devil to do that?"

"I'm done being Daredevil," Matt declares, quiet, and Vlad catches his breath.

"Matvey," he starts, and reaches out, pained, to touch his friend's leg, "What happened?"

"I decided to stop," Murdock answers, low, decisive, "Forever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: So what do you think? Vlad fought alongside Matt in the field, Matt faced the Punisher for him, and Vlad called Matt by his nickname for the first time. Matt quit! Not to mention everything else! Hope you enjoyed! :D ))


	21. Fallen Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Vlad and Matt beginning to deal with the fallout of decisions made in the last chapter... Hope you enjoy! :) ))

"You're... quitting?"

Vlad asks this after a very long silence between Matt's statement and the moment that follows.

"Yes," the lawyer repeats, and then goes into the kitchen like he hasn't just dropped a bombshell of enough a proportion to leave the Russian reeling- this is a major, life-changing thing for Matt to just come out with so abruptly, standing there beside the couch and looking casual, if a bit strained.

"Why?" he asks, staring over his shoulder, and then turning back to the room, shaking his head and knotting his fingers together the same way his stomach has itself, like a rope tightening itself inside of him, tense. He can't shake the thought that, despite shedding the Devil, this is not something that his friend is doing for the right reasons, and that makes him feel consumed, sick, even, with worry.

"It's for the best," Murdock answers shortly, "I just keep hurting people. Pushing all my friends away."

"Not me," Vladimir says, twisting around to face him, "You only save me, Matvey. Never hurt me, or push me away."

"Everyone else," Matt corrects himself, a small smile playing at his lips. Vladimir can feel his heart beating hard in his chest, wonders if the former Daredevil can hear it, slamming against his ribs, fear at this entire situation almost consuming him. He's spent so long in a world where his roommate is the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, he has no idea who they'll be to each other if they're not that, not two beings constantly together and yet in disorder, like gears, never quite coming perfectly together, always shifting away instead. 

Something will have to change, something important, and change has never been comfortable for Vladimir Ranskahov.

"What happened, Matvey?" Vlad asks, feeling like it comes out hurried and urgent, but not really caring for how he sounds.

"Elektra died," the lawyer admits, after a short moment of pause, as if considering honesty versus lying, and decides that the weight of the first is either lesser or greater, depending which he wants to bear today. Somehow, Vlad is guessing greater- because Matt always wants to punish himself, carry burdens too great for his shoulders alone, no matter how hard the former Devil tries to convince himself otherwise.

"I'm sorry," the former mobster says, because he's not sure what else to say to that- he didn't like her very much, after all, saw her as a distinct threat to Matt, and, maybe, also to his world as it stood mere hours ago.

Now, it turns out, perhaps, that Matt himself is just as much of a threat, in his simple decision to turn everything about his identity ever since he met the Russian on its head.

"Thank you," Murdock says, plain, his voice essentially empty, and Vlad hears grief in the tones. It's familiar to him, reminding him of the pain of losing Anatoly, and there's a pang in his chest at it, hollow and ringing, like a bell hung in his heart banging against the outsides, breaking sinew open.

"But... what about others?" Vladimir wonders, trying to find a way, but struggling, to convince Matt to see it his way, "What about people who still need Daredevil?"

"No one needs Daredevil," Matt says, bitter, and then, quieter, so quiet that if it weren't dead silent in the apartment, Vladimir would never hear him, he adds, "Except for me."

So Vladimir repeats it for his roommate.

"Except for me," he says, thinking of that night in the dilapidated building, of being coated in sweat and dust and blood, in the humid-cold air, struggling with the Man in the Black Mask on that floor before he saved his life.

It had been the strangest of turning points, or at least the beginning of it. And, now, that might be all over- another turning point, one he is terrified of, because what does he become without Daredevil?

"You'll get along," Matt tells him, quiet, gentle, and then goes to his room, leaving the Russian alone to muse.

~

Vladimir lays awake in the night, thinking- no more Daredevil, so who is he? Who are he and Matt, when it is not that one is only a man, and the other is something more, someone striving to help- to be a hero?

Who are they when they are both men, neither fighting in the night to bring light to the shadows that most can't see?

Who is Vladimir when he's not being inspired to do better each and every day by the Devil of Hell's Kitchen? Who is Matt when he's not letting the Devil out in the streets, when he's letting it remain bottled up inside of himself? 

It's dangerous, the two of them like that, with the darkness looming ever closer, grief and anger.

Then, something clicks for him- it doesn't have to be Matt. After all- he's a fighter too, has been for years, even stood up against the Man in the Black Mask all by himself that one time. He spent years building an empire with his knuckles, even when they broke- he just keeps going, and always has. He can solve problems.

So here's the solution:

Vladimir is going to become a vigilante.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: I hope you enjoyed! :) ))


End file.
